Selling Paradise

Selling Paradise

And so, you are selling paradise.
The land of my childhood mystics;
I am scared of the cattle in the field.
We sit Indian style in the grass and they gather around us.
A huge game of Duck, Duck, Goose; and we are in the mush pot.
Each of their movement’s deliberate in my mind, tentative in theirs’.
I feel your hand around mine,
And take refuge in knowing I am safe.
Then we stand up; Sharp and straight.
At our movement they scatter,
Calling to each other “retreat, retreat.”
I am no longer afraid of the cattle,
And run down to the creek,
Where the pink lady slippers call to me,
As the prince did to Cinderella.

R. A. Heade, 9 May 2005