Soft in the morning when the world was begun
a child in an orchard
after the race was run.

She stands and sheds a single tear
and sings of younger times.
Green apples in her basket
a dry taste in her mouth.

Ill-reconciled to self or season
but still in the dawn light,
still as sound in water,
an eerie drip from the tongue.

Standing tall in the lies and the sun,
stuttering half-full phrases,
in a body begun and rewound,
bandaged and itching,
claiming her skin.

Distances stretched around her wrist,
long turns of thought,
her shapely legs,
her softened brow.

She strikes a beat,
and wipes away the sweats of youth.

She swipes her hair from off her face,
met my eyes.
Once,
we counted.

Elastic children,
playing at the wave's end.
We push upon ourselves,
forget regret.
We'll save it for another,
we'll store it for each other.