“Stop. Enough. It’s Sunday.”
“Da-ad, it’s practice. I have to.”
“The garden, then. Give me peace.”
Flute songs pierce the screen
the willow weaves with its leaves.
She slouches beneath the boughs,
flute flashing straight,
silver and cool
among their mottling branches.
Fine as Puck, ungathered
she turns her back, halts,
a stutter under her hand,
a scatter over the lawn.
Her fingers walk
the dappling on her knee,
hold to the edge
where light does not burn,
nor the dark freeze.
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