The setting sun and

her blushing clouds

began their depart,

like the end 

of a concert

over the parking lot

of touching sneaker tips

and emptied soda cans 

rolling crooked by pebbles,

so that when the breeze fanned

out my skirt, like a flag

fluttering, I was compelled to

stand longingly as a staff,

shoulders sinking 

like a clock’s hand,

watching the land change—

the lone leaf eloping with

the young magnolia petal—

wondering if the branch

missed its baby 

before it left,

blinking back the vision 

of returning to life, my

arms outstretched by morning

but too small to fill the room,

or push out the ghosts 

weeping by my pictures.