Lethe (prompt #3)

Lethe

The swings are Olympus,
The sandbox is Troy.
(I'll be Zeus, as always.)
The plummeting joy
Of flight and of leaping
The crest of the arc,
The story unspooling
Well into the dark.
We're pirates. This stick
Is my flintlock, rapier
This willow switch--
No, let's play musketeers!
(I'm Athos, and you be
Whoever you want.)
Our cloaks will billow
With grace nonchalant,
Our horses will gallop
In furious chase,
As far as the power
Substation -- for days! --
For duty, and honor
A hero receives.
We'll pay for our journey
With willow leaves
Like silvery fishes,
With plantain to heal
All grievous wounds,
Both imagined and real.
This dead moth we found
We'll gravely inter
With satin rose petals
Surrounding her
In this matchbox coffin,
Her gravestone a shard
Of cobalt blue bottle
And torn playing card,
There under the cherries,
Where secrets are stored.
A ball has been called in
The flower-doll court.
We'll pick out a headdress
Of daisy or phlox,
And perm in a puddle
Their dandelion locks,
With bright malva gowns
And apple-leaf capes,
Affairs and gossip
And daring escapes
Await. And tomorrow
It all starts again,
And memory lingers
Like tatterwort stain:
Adventures and monsters,
Apartment block myths,
The summer days grow,
The stories grow with:
Ephemeral magic,
Like cottonwood fluff,
But backyard-wrought wonder
Was wonder enough.
The spellwork unravels,
The evening grows late,
But in dreams still will hover
The games that we played.