drizzle light across the plains of cities,
play in the parks and streets
and hide behind tall trees
that wear their skirts high
and drip berries in the spring.
They see the pattern of life is not flat
as they ride on hills and valleys
to dig into meaning,
then wander off
to make magic with night.
Like a child beguiled by sign keep out,
they hide on the other side of the fence
waiting for time to make a place to slide through.
The silver slanted fingers dance
with patterns weaving light and shadow,
pulling berries from the trees
that know the dripping sweet and sticky lick of dark;
waiting for a place to slide through and see,
following the pull toward the other side.