At eleven, we were hollow-stemmed, yellow-haired flowering weeds,
all taller than the boys,
chained around a crab apple branch like thaw drops.
We were departing swallows
quicker than afternoon;
smug with our lessers, cowed by our betters,
kites with cat-tails, casting for a clue.
Want to go with me?
Say no, say yes, say no, say yes!
Whatever they said, it would be years before we felt this power again,
at the high arc of a cycle of seasons,
calling the steps, knowing the music would change.
for Rommy's "Fun and Games" prompt at Toads.