I’ll tell you a story of when you were twelve.
Climbing the apple tree, you slipped and fell
among the endless, terminal wheat
of your father’s fields.
You scraped both elbows and one knee,
like Alice, tumbled
and glimpsed a golden sea
with white perfect foam on its lips,
sparkling like a thousand breakfasts.
Smiling on the lowest branch,
your sun dress torn,
your mother’s make-up faded,
you wrapped your legs about
the lowest wooden leg,
with feet airborne.