We are huddled beneath the forsythia
Fireflies in a jar
Bustling around like plastic wind-up toys

Stuck under a cage of branches
The sky is small droplets of blue
Golden strands of flowers above
Like Mother's pearl necklace

Squishing up leaves like papers on the last day of school
We make only the finest dishes
On rocks of china
Milkweed for garnish

A cardinal creeps in the branches
With mocking eyes
Like a thief to our innocence
It plucks a twig from our sacred home
Adds it to his own

We hollow out the bush
Our own cave
Small backs against the brick
Our haven grows
And the bush becomes a frail crust over us

Droplets of sky
Turn to lakes
The golden strands are swallowed
As we grow

The old forsythia is strange now
Hollowed from the inside
And spindly like morning hair on top
It hovers over a few rocks
And some plastic Easter eggs
That fell through the small dome of youth

We are fireflies that flew from that cage
Into the endless ocean of blue