Ghosts play amongst grass, laughter
booming off heavy wooden beams.
Whipped cream as sweet as the day I devoured it.
Calloused feet try to walk in velcro shoes.
skin and sole.
Each tree has kept their roots,
But we’re all a few inches taller.
Butterflies dance on engraved stone.
They remember the sun they bathed in
Amid summer nights.
Monarchs enacting sovereignty upon layers of mossy brick,
Hoping they find their queen.
A body, tenderly constructed
Of wood, glass, and brick breathes
With a different heart inside.
A French baker’s clock whispers nostalgia
Through chilled halls.
Paces always linger near the end of the path,
Mine are no different.
I stare in the face of a familiar foe.
The jaws of memory open wide,
And I will be delicious.
Photography by Isabella Baxter