Fleeting magic


One hour amidst winding woodsy paths
And secret staircases and hidden, tuneful birds
Grew wings in my memory,
Stretched time,
Let moments wander,
Into the realm of hours.

Now when I dance backwards into time,
I find the music slower, prettier,
Our words longer, more punctuated,
And it almost makes up -
For the sorry shortness of that golden hour.

It's funny how, 
I remember the silences better than the words
And the fleeting magic better 
Than the emptiness that came after.

Now when I dance backwards into time,
I can smell the sunny, sweet scent of the Southern air
I can see the trees watching us with languid eyes
I can feel the sweat making ticklish inroads down my back
I can hear the buzz of honey-thirsty bees 
And I wonder how much of it is embellished memory.

And it's funny how,
I remember the light on your hair better than the light itself
And the arc of your smiles better
Than the arc of the path that brought us there.