Personified. In the evening, trees grow limbs and swim deep in moonlit lakes, avoiding the ocean, avoiding the moonlight and the crispness of their leaves, the funnel into the sea, escape.
They avoid dreams.
He waited for more.
She didn’t know what else to tell him. The summer was an antique tree, there. A river spiraled like hair around the base of a hill that looked like sea grass. Red had become brown. Black, gray.
It seemed the perfect place to hide children.
Exactly what she didn’t say.
His eyes like clear aqua looked wet in the darkness, reflections off the window, when he asked if Heaven was in the stars–
if their mother could touch them whenever the sky turned black, stars sprinkled across the horizon like confetti.
So she told him of the harbor – the longest way from home,
the only place left to find winter lilies.