Saprid could not have caught us in better light
in the wild disarray of our dance, as I
flung you away,
in stirred air, damp curls
It was mere
joy quickened in your throat,
sprung its way up as bird flight,
light as heart-
song, and you,
the axis of my gravity.
You were five and it was the month of May again,
Our circle yet unbroken by sorrow's centrifuge.
Saprid's tikbalang prancing, still far, faraway.
*For Mary Ann, on her birthday, May 5, 2011