Youth and Age

Add leaves to your nature costume, a red berry for your nose, a bonnet over your Medusa hair. I've been drinking for so long from this fountain of age, I'll need a crypt to open the door to youth. You, on the other hand, can just lay down in the weeds and whisker seeds germinate in your skin, that winter shaves off with razor blade snowflakes. Don't promise me you'll rescue me from my cave, because my shadow hates me, and I have enough ex-lovers who want to roll boulders back in place, not letting me escape from bats and centipedes. If the time's right, though, I'll add a branch of yours to my family tree, and you'll bury yourself in gleeful ash. Then we can roll in the soil, think of rain that errupts with our memories. Your second grade class, full of hope, grow a leaf through your lips, which my sixth grade A+ project meets with its heart-shaped tongue, shooting an arrow through both of us.