Perfume Garden

Iwas falling, and she was five
when we walked through the perfume garden.
She picked and picked roses and poses,
as though she lived herlife
followed by a camera.
Sundresses, curly hair, teddy bears andteacups.
Her little laugh shattered me like thin glass,
and I played asif it were me
the butterflies were dancing for.
When I was short ofbreath,
I remembered my age and tried not to let her see
the tears thatmarked my return.
My feet tangled in the grass and kept watching inwonder
to see how far she would go.
She turned around just before I grewworried,
to be sure my arms were still waiting for her.
She never saw medrown in her daisy crown
and her eyes chased the rest of the afternoon.