don’t blossom here, flower,
close up, go back inside. don’t reach,
for your sun, don’t open your petals
wide. don’t smile, or believe, or
speak your fuschia dreams.
he’ll pick you if you bloom just right,
grip you, rip you, wilt your hue,
until a lovelier one blooms, and he will
drop you. pick her. pick her. pick her.
you’ll be lying on the ground, with no
way to grow. wither. hold your blooms,
dear flower, let him pick no more.
Icy tree under the fire sky
holds on to her shine, grips
her tender fingers with diamond
drops and defies him to threaten
her with his heat. She is proud,
stands at the top of the rise,
tips back her head and sings.
Her frozen limbs swing to catch
late day light, sparkle and know
she belongs this way, shining
through angry fire. He closes in,
trying to melt her delicate ice,
but she holds it higher, her promise,
until fire has melted, receded,
and all that remains behind
is the blue glow of hope.
Talking to the Clouds 