waiting by the stark black
silhouette of the river birch
against the lilac sky

pacing around, leaving trails
of battered acorns
and burnt umber leaves

while she sits, cross-legged
plucking the young dandelions
wishing for something

perhaps for the maypops
to bloom into deep violet
with bulbs to throw as grenades

-- or the honeysuckles
draping over the neighbor's fence
to slowly pull each stamen for one drop

-- or for the touch-me-nots
to waken from their shy slumber
to be prodded once again

a momentary glow of yellow-green
in the distance -- at last, fireflies
we sit against the birch to watch