white pillars rise.
A sleepy hand upon the snakey shod shoots
up,
up and fades out. A white mist high above and far below; in between
crisp greens and mulch browns,
well-worn paths.
far below, the sea.
I was wrong.
Everytime someone died. color and breath, the fast unfurl of carbon away from death plants that rise and grow, strange citybomb beneath…
Bloomed in the fall, I loved you in the winter. When summer came the world was dead and cold.