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.