In a white car‚ while
wearing a white gown‚ over
bridges and mountains‚ down
into valleys
in springtime‚ or
the ocean’s frozen over.
No. A beast with a tail made of weather
knocking a third of the stars out of heaven.
A storm in the heart
of every morning.
Despite the diagnosis.
With no regard for the prognosis.
A prayer whispered
in a roadside chapel
as a fire truck wails by:
No‚ like
that fire truck idling
at the center of the fire.
Like a hummingbird wrapped up
in a bright silk scarf. Tightly. Its
tiny shroud. Little storm. Still alive.
