For Chard
The brooms are gathering their water buckets again,
the froth of suds sloshing over the hooper's work
and dripping onto the perilous stairs.
I'll try not to be frantic this time,
running around in my foolishly flapping robes
and adjusting the ill-fitting hat over my ridiculous ears.
The water is pouring from the parapets now,
like the veiled threats and childish aggression
wielded in an unknown and undeserved place,
while you summoned majestic goshawks
and women drawn from flames.
You spoke with me calmly then,
delicately placating my naive assumptions,
never raising your voice,
maintaining the control over yourself that amazed me so.
And now,
I'm on my own again,
desperate to do anything other than destroy
the castle you left for me,
handing me the keys and this robe,
and even leaving the hat for me to find,
a final chance to salvage something
from the gifts you gave so freely.
When I see you again,
still damp from my imperfect art,
I will embrace you,
show you the wilting bouquet I wrestled from my hat,
the absolute lack of visible bunnies,
smile like a mouse,
and thank you.
