Remember when the trees started singing, and the stars danced, and we became the sky? The Milky Way sparkled through my hair, comet light and stardust clinging to your fingers, getting under your nails when you kissed me.
The fairies stopped frolicking to watch and learn the strangest magic of all, a suspension of the laws of physics, gravity more idea than law. How did you fit all of those coyotes under your chin? Did you know they would hunt me, attempt to rip out my throat? Or did you know that my gryphon, my flying beast with a lion’s head, would protect me, chasing them into nothing with one roar, the promise of the slash of claws?
Where did the wind go? Have the mountains forgotten how to breathe? I saw a hawk flapping his wings and wondered what happened to his glide.
What are the trees doing now? I can’t tell from up here, and I’m not coming back down. There’s a mountain up here that I can swim in, a river to climb, and I can sleep in the sun’s embrace, floating on the entire ocean.
About the Creator
Harper Lewis
Intrusive rhyme bothers me, except as a weapon.
Intertextuality is my passion.
Formalist/ New Critical are my guiding theories.
My words are mine, not a robot’s.
MA English literature, CofC
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