james sleeps in the meadow. there are such things as meadowlarks and there are sylphs, watching him as he covers his face with his hat to avoid burning in the sun. she trembles at the sight, staying amidst the shadows where she might appear merely another glimmer of light. the moment is blissfully quiet and calm, it doesn’t stir it doesn’t wake. james sleeps in the meadow. the larks dance above his form, the grass he treads down, the flowers squashed beneath his body and how blessed they are, the sylph thinks. how blessed. Someone calls his name, and she wishes it could be her voice that made him sit up and hurry and run. oh, how she wants him to run with her. she would give flight to his feet, but alas. once he is gone, she tiptoes out into the glade and lies down softly in the spot where he lay. he has touched these pebbles, he has touched this corn. she hears him yell, far ahead, a girl’s name. he has almost touched me, she thinks. james slept in the meadow.

no one will remember us
in a later time

I will be thin
air and currents
that constantly change

I will be gone

while you
will be a cautionary tale:
don’t run
into the woods

it’s where you lose
your mind at best
and your life
at worst

to that I can attest

though I suppose
if we are reborn
as warnings
of our past fates
we will at least
be born
interrelated

once more