my legs still hurt from running

by Alexandra Morton

she’s still there when the fog lifts,
and my legs still hurt from running.
it’s something out of a dream,
and i’ll never understand the linguistics.
she’s sitting on the bench
and the well has rusted.

the trees speak through her,
and i can’t reach the bench.
three-feet tall,
cheeks stinging from the frost,
and my brain feels hazy.
my legs have grown since then.

she’s the light.
she told me the trees could dance.
she told me the trees could speak,
and i might understand it now.
she’s still there when the fog lifts,
and my legs still hurt from running.