when I stepped off the cloud, the sky became water, and I dove in, drifted downstream, away from the world. The hawks wheeling overhead had secrets written on their tail feathers. I was amazed that their feathers, who can’t pronounce “herringbone,” knew the other language.
You know the one (or do you?); it doesn’t have words, just meaning that spools out like a ribbon, undulating and catching light. And it knows why shadows get to follow different rules, how weather is born, and where rainbows go at night.
There were no cotton fields, and the trees were all upside down, leafy limbs lying on the ground beneath giant root balls in the sky, and the clouds rained soil, black and loamy, but nothing got dirty.
When I found the flowers, they asked me to bring them a river. Thirsty zinnias and lilies braiding their stems into chains, for what?
The mountains have stopped crying, and the deer are dancing again. Let’s find a white rabbit and chase it down a hole.
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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