Annie, On A Summer Afternoon Poem by Leah Browning

They tumble into the library, the mother
and her little girl, both laughing,
covering their mouths. Their cheeks
are flushed, they have been running,
and tangled in their dark hair,
wildflowers wilt under fluorescent lights.

I sit on a stool at the circulation desk
as they wander dreamily
through the stacks. Annie is four,
in a floral-print dress and sandals,
redolent of green grass and sunshine.

In her mind she is still outside,
watching her mother fashion crowns
out of dandelions. She sees
the woman’s face, the curves of her
breasts and hips, the movements of her
hands as she weaves the stems together.

Kneeling in the grass, her mother
places the smaller crown on Annie’s head.

Annie rises before her. There is a deep
groove in the skin above the woman’s
eyebrow; her hair falls loose
and unkempt at her shoulders. Annie looks
at this country, this landscape
of woman in front of her.

She arranges the crown on her mother’s head
and strokes the cheeks with her small plump hands.
There, she says, smiling. Now you’re beautiful.