the ledge on which she stands
remembering the bounce
of high board at the swimming hole
where she entertained him nightly
when he was still a boy
and she a femme fatale,
intent on being different
noticed, worshipped, adored,
tease-stripping, tossing her garments
onto the limbs of trees.
There is no bounce where she now stands
only rough edge tempting,
teasing her weary toes
turned inward, pre-takeoff.
She’s letting go at last,
abandoning the dream
their destinations are the same,
flinging her clothes before
the thousand eyes of night.
They fall softly over fir trees
in this hymnless season of dying.
© 2013 Barbara Moore
editing by alicia winski & rich follett