Loss of Color

In my dream the rosebush had climbed into the oak
and all the blossoms were standing on the limbs shouting
but they were not blossoms, they were the beating hearts of children
giant plastic strawberries
a constellation made up of a thousand stars as red as Antares
uncut garnets the size of your fist
they were snappers standing on their tails and gesticulating
and one by one they fell from the tree for it was now winter
and bare boughs
framed gray sky.

--for Writer's Island

Collection available! Knocking from Inside