When the Earth’s axis tilts me towards the sun
and daylight drives me from my sweet dreams,
when the soil I stand on softens under me
and the fresh mud snares my every step,
when hatchling swans sing their fated bird songs
and fill my ears with their syncopated screams,
I will walk across every meadow,
snatching the budding bulbs of springtime up by their roots,
so the Earth is too weightless to sustain its trajectory
and it begins to spin backwards, sending us back in time
until the ground freezes over,
and the baby birds choke to death on their own cries.
And when I’m alone in my bedroom,
eased under the eye of the harsh winter moon,
I’ll slip my fist, with its dull,
brittle, bouquet under my head, fall asleep
and dream of when I once held a rainbow in my hands.
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