Following an accident - as a child - and returning to the spot and as an adult remembering what occured, and with your eyes closed, you see yourself there, once more.
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YOU ASKED ME TO DANCE
A white butterfly . . .
You have come home to dance
on my shoulder, high above daisies
to spin in circles
casting our shadows on a pond
a rendezvous of seasons, and
a landscape covered with snow. . .
You fooled me.
Your sister’s, sister?
No one noticed when she fell
through ice.
A white picket fence keeps
me away.
I feel your wings.
You flutter toward the barn
pass the statue of the
BlessedVirgin Mary.
We dash to skip over holes
in the floor of the barn.
You grab my hand
we skip over light; reflections on
a wide plank wooden floor.
We pass a broken lantern
red glass shimmers,
and Grandmother’s wedding dress
hung near our homemade stage.
You grab my hand, and together
we run to the hillside
we roll into a ball and tumble
“head over heals”, Grandmother said,
on over grown grass. . .
We roll over clover and our toes tangle
in weeds,
we roll near apples left beneath the apple
tree . . .
In winter,
I hear you laugh -
your tear’s roll down your face
you’re laughing so hard
you bend to catch your breath. . .
Your chin captures yellow of a butter cup,
and again - the wings of a white butterfly
leads me to the white picket fence. . .
The slope disappears.
The apple tree, a twig.
And your face
appears in murky water.
Your laughter still surrounds me. . .
A stone is tossed, and circles swirl over,
and over.
My eye’s close as if captured by the
swirling water,
and you were gone.
Forgive me.
A yellow eye - inside a white daisy
asked - me to dance. . .
we are leaping across summer grass
near tall weeds and wild flowers.
Our dance ends – so,
I snap your stem to take you home.
Nancy Duci Denofio
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