The festival ended aeons ago
but the queue haunts on
between two fields to a meadow.
Only a few ahead of us now,
jovial, as if the rusty clang-
clang tolled fresh vows.
A sapling thrills in the breeze
like a dog shaking off a river.
Children lose themselves in trees.
And now that we’re inside
the cage, we admit to nerves.
It’s late
yet the sun confuses
the year, its glitter in our eyes
as we kiss
neither too old
nor afraid to pass through
to the second field.
