Her Playgrounds That She Cannot Possibly Remember Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Spells kiss wildflowers until the fall: and then they
Kiss the shoulders and breasts of stones:
And the tigers fly over the abutments and through the keyholes
Where the cerulean tribes no longer mean to say
Their things:
And the sky over your village is crenulated by lightning when it
Is in the right place;
As this is the exact point from which the entire sorority of rivers
Fall,
Their tears cooking in the feral aqueducts until they fall down and
Palaver quietly in the deep canals
Beside the wayward highways- as if it was their church,
Until they run on down to your house that would be perfect
Save for its crooked mailboxes:
And they try to make a lake for you, an estuary as well for your
Daughter to find whatever metamorphosis,
The sky looking down the uncountable steps like a proud mother
As her child runs skipping through the forest,
Kissing every blade and fish, all the daylight in the world trying to
Strike words upon her playgrounds that she cannot possibly remember.