Korinne Goes Into the Woods

Chloë Williams-Garcia

Soft moss feet spinning in

the wet-weather stream.

I hope you’ll braid curly hair

for me with your gentle hands

that are cold and sweet.

Lately I fear that we will get old.

Let us build a temple of branches,

and behold—here we can hide

until we know that the honey bear will

never again pull us out of our souls.

We are sixteen and this tiny world is

beginning to drown lightning bugs,

the sneezeweed fields,

the chill in November,

that faint shimmer in your skin.

You and I climb up the copsed

skyline again, brandish scissors

made of copper, snip and send

plaits down the precipice that surely will say,

this once was a very special place.