Claireve

is a trained rose,
weaving her
elaborate way
up the latticework!
and I,
the moss on
the oak.

Harpsichords and bees,
thinks Clairève,
with the broken promise
of a cloudy day.

Clairève climbs
gracefully up to
le lune -
a firefly
caught in opal rain -
perches there and says,
‘I can see everything
from here.’

I’ll catch her if she
falls.