There I was, trampling through the leaves, hand in hand
with my future sister-in-law
and I asked her if the setting was the least bit familiar:
invisible snow in Kentucky, or was it Louisville?
The air was a stale noon, and we had adventured there last Thursday
and had a too-long conversation about miniature sized fruit.
We talked about the moon, and how peculiar it was
that we could see it in broad daylight
and she gave me the scientific explanation.
How do you explain baby corn, I asked.
They’re not fruit, she replied.
I asked about the wedding, and she was enthusiastic
about the squirrel running past.
She wrote her name in the mud with a stick
and called it a self-portrait
which was the point I began to feel stupid.
I didn’t know why we were holding hands
but it formed a bond that was only broken
when she had to let go because
she had to yawn. And her eyes, I should
have said something about her eyes.