Ours was a friendship
Ours was a friendship that needed no words.
Next to each other in green valleys
we’d listen for our breath, like soft
swells of green hills expanding in the sun.
Ours was a friendship that had its own speech:
a vocabulary within our irises
that knew when we needed to hide
or run or find a tale to cover our truths.
Ours was a friendship played along river beds,
placing dishes for fairies that would never come
and building bridges that could just carry
the weight of our small feet.
Ours was a friendship spent building worlds,
in the backdrop of reds and yellows,
against the ancient trees that call us home
to wash the dirt from our hands.
Ours was a friendship that ended
when we could no longer hold our hands,
when our bodies brought us shame and
our shared baths became unclean.
Ours was a friendship lost
in starburst branches, scattered
against the sky – golden glows dancing
in the autumn sun that cradle our lost fruit.
Ours is a friendship trapped in time,
a beat in Blake’s song,
pressed in pastoral rhyme –
a golden twilight of summertime.