A hoop of willow twigs
woven with blooms
wreaths her head,
snares his heart.
A single day's pain,
a half minute of joy,
innocent as a dish of mint leaves,
wilted roses,
thorns clasped by a lonely hand.
They stand in the wet grass.
She gathers rose hips.
He watches the breeze pass through.
The bush is old,
its roots are deep and thick
They are young.
The grass anoints their feet.
They are young.
The breeze musses their hair.
They are young.
The rose hips make fine tea
that cures loneliness.