She thought them childish

and once they were

as we rolled them along the carless gutters

of a yesteryear

 

and watched them clink and bounce

with skilled abandon

then pocket them.

 

Yes, I suppose that was childish

but the memory is clear

and now again I see them

all bubbling up at me:

 

languid glass,

feathered,

refined

and tell her how can roll them in a willing palm

spill them on a sheet,

put out the light

let them dance you to sleep.

 

Like all good spheres

they will keep their promise

throughout the night.