Well Sprung
When I was seven I felt the urge
to capture an enchanted being.
I caught him in the gentle grasses
of our side yard.
Cupped in my hands
he waited,
his antennae gathered signals from distant worlds,
his cold eyes measured
the texture of my skin,
his armor sparkled
in the shadows of my fingers,
his legs were unanchored tent poles.
I held out my hand
straight as a diving board.
He sprang
with power and grace --
a green arc of parabolic escape.
He was blind to what he left behind:
a bonfire in my chest,
a salty koan,
the memory of a trinket
I had to let go.
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