It’s time again for the pouring
of thistledown into the palm
for the skidding of sycamore seeds.

Butterflies with red hair
settle on me like friends
and shadows lean and bend.

Our eyes mate casually.
No choosing is involved.
Instead you would walk

willingly up my path
climb the whiskery stairs
and talk in a small cocoon.

Meanwhile my task would be
to make a salad for example
and perhaps

to open my eyes without melodrama
leaving the window
open.

*

Rachel McAlpine