5-minute poem #1, statistics class:

Chandeliers,
Megan names them. She
turns 10 next April. Before the 1st
World War, these lakeside oaks slept
in a pouch as glossy seeds.

But wounded daily by morning
brandishing its scintallas
like a swordsman
in the last year of the Samurai,
the sparrowed oaks droop
over water and shiver silver

coins
of light
leaves
beetles. Between
jasmine-starry blue
cotton and gilt girl-skin
dance eight
arachnid limbs tickling
like mascara'd eyelash kisses
from Marilyn Monroe.
A thousand
twigs crackle
under sneakers.

Familiar
magic, refuge
for us
our wildlife, whether or not
we invent names
for children, characters, birds, trees
pre- or post-Daylight Savings Time
in New Orleans, Paris, Seattle or
even Prague, where
we have never
held hands
under a tree
together.

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