There’s a slope that leads into the wayback.
I am in a yellow dress and running. 
The grape vine that was cut sometime after that 
becomes a magical trellis in a fairytale woodland;
And the tall grove of trees, a forest of sweet, grassy green undergrowth.

I am that very moment.
Moving, 
legs under me carry
with precision of
a gazelle 
and the innocence 
of soft, childlike calves.

The golden sun 
in late summer sky sings
of all the coming sweet golden hours.