Today Gretchen’s hair is pulled into a taut ponytail.
She has sprouted elfin ears since last I saw her.
Perky lobes reach into points buffed soft.
Her mouth moves in precision,
eliciting consonants etched in silver.
High clavicles betray the grace of all true dancers.
She lives mostly in this world,
but sometimes flees to forests
where fat mossy trunks sprawl amiably.
There she fans translucent wings
sequined in morning dew
and quivering with the thrushes’ song.
Once I saw her flash into a black witch moth,
wings thrashing, eyes piercing,
casting evil out of paradise.
Today, she drives a red car, travels with an aging border collie,
her back seat inexplicably full of brightly colored plastic pails.