Prologue d'un Conte de Fées
In that blue corner lies an exception
A pretty brief rose and a brief squirrel
But not just any corner of forgotten dust
Never to be found again, nor just any squirrel
Bushy-tailed, eyes gleaming, chewing nuts
Is this a containment of a natural situation?
Ah, but still more a box than a wrecked bed
Though less than a coffin (though much more)
It’s my old collection of lambent red, I speak
Of those years together, of all the time it took
To reassemble me, and when she saw it.
© 2015 Rob Schackne