If I were an insect, I might be a lightning bug
but you would call me a firefly.
If you were an insect you might be a crane fly.
I don’t know what I would call you.
You’re not my kind of daddy longlegs.
If you were a crane fly your legs would be deciduous,
meaning: tending to fall off, particularly at maturity.
You might still have them
but you’d be getting close to losing them.
We’re getting close to losing our immaturity.
I bought a book about leaves for my father
but I want to keep it for myself.
We live in the bush now and it takes too long to get anywhere
so I might just stay up here this year,
carrying his book with me along the trails behind our house.
I’ll buy a pair of binoculars and spy on all the birds
and think of them as my friends because the neighbour’s cats won’t talk to me,
they just stare at me through the windows until I move
and then hunch down under the porch.
If we were Brontë sisters,
I would be Anne and you would be Emily.
Nobody wants to be Charlotte.