What do we do when the sky melts?
I see flowers there.
Growing from abandoned spines, they burst out of dried stomping grounds, a thistle among weeds who plays hide and seek with a chrysanthemum star.
And clouds scatter – light shatters.
“Caution,” the winds scream, “take care.”
“Don’t let me be alone,” the thistle replies, and the winds carry it away.
In the corner of your backyard, we turned over a rotting wagon, prodding it with holes for collected things. Ear wax and amber and torn apart dead leaves rescued from winter’s grounds. One day we’ll make a hole big enough for a lion and his mane, for fossilized honeycomb, maybe even a giraffe’s spots.
But for now, we’ll collect candlewicks and stick them in our holes. Lightning will spark an evolution. We have ways of catching fire in the summer’s dampest nights.
I find a thistle on the backside of a stuffed donkey and think to myself, what a strange tale. The donkey murmurs his agreement in bashful accordion rifts. He blushes vividly. Blinds me.
Soon, the accordions rise sonorous above and cut the world in two.
A bee and a candlemaker stare at each other between layers. The bee wonders why she cannot fly and the candlemaker despairs earning her stripes.
This is hurricane weather, I think.