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To the Fountain and Back

Aubree Blomgren

We toss what is loose in our pockets.

The extra wishes will make up for

the wrong wishes we are likely to make.

You laugh out loud and the winter

holds your breath in small bunches

of white roses. Even in the snow

you are springtime, each tooth a petal,

each step a step somewhere I cannot go.

I am so much older than you,

and it is below freezing. I ask can we leave?

But It’s a fountain you say,

and I cannot argue, it is a fountain, so we stay,

then start off. Back to the house

your small feet leave prints

on the mirror of snow. Your hands

crumple up the white

sheets like paper poems you don't like

anymore, and you toss them

at your mother who keeps track

of your losses, your failures

to hit, you keep count of your wins

on your fingers, then your toes,

and a knee cap, then you're tired,

black circles rising up to the surface

like trout just under the ice. But before we go

and we cannot go before this,

you turn while standing in the somewhere

between my kiss and the front porch

and take a bow

as the air, the trees, the cold

stands and sits like a crowd doing a wave in your honor.