With the cuffs of her socks
edged in nylon lace
she sits on a lawn and watches trees—
apple trees that shed white blossoms
and sift to the ground
to become a bridge for pill bugs
that journey around a water hydrant
and beneath a rock
whose color changes
whenever she shifts her head—
the bus is taking a long time to arrive
she plucks dandelions
with teased crowns of white hair
that gather between her damp fingers like strings of a harp.
She knows how this works, but forgets to wish.
People are gathered in front of the bus stop.
It’s taking forever.