Clover (Davina)

Here’s how
the story begins:

we were supposed
to write but
went foraging—

an odd task
in a city
park, which yet

yielded yellow
crabapples &
young clover

where we sat
with bumblebees,
the white

blossoms warm
& peppery.

The city’s September
heartbeat: footsteps
& freight trains,

one basketball on
hardcourt;

the city’s
bloodstream:
murmuring
Schuylkill,

almost
too slow
to hear.

Soon we sat
silently like
old friends, strangers

bound by
this strange
small meal,

by little
white flowers
woven together—

so maybe it
doesn’t matter
how the story
ends.