Saturday, December 8, 2012

Dandelions and lemonade

She pours lemonade from the pitcher's lip, presses her lip to the glass, cool sweat dampens her forehead. Ice cool palms, dirt crescent nails, face burned red, yellow hair pours. Wood rockers swaying and her garden soon to sleep.

His hammer strikes nails, the porch boards creak beneath wood rockers swaying. Sweat pours. Last yellow sinks below the lip of the creek. The crescent moon rising in the evening, a cool wind rustling the palms. The red nosecone rising high above him. He hasn't slept in days. He wonders if there's time to disappear before the world burns.

The porch boards creak beneath her swaying. His hammer strikes nails in the yard, pressing her garden, the red nosecone rising high above them. The cool wind pours over her burned skin. It's a wonder the world can sleep this evening. Her palms rustling against a glass of lemonade.

The creek is like glass, reflected crescent moon lips pour across. Dandelions along the edge of the wood swaying in cool wind. In the distance, a hammer ceases to strike. He wonders how many have burned in their sleep this evening, lit yellow and red. He wonders how soon before the burning world presses in.

Finally he finishes. They are harnessed beneath the red nosecone, backs pressed, crescent moon reflected against their glass helmets. Her lips hammer t-minus ten. The ignition strikes, pouring red, then yellow. Rustling, swaying, then high above.  The yard burning with ignition, the garden burning, the porch. To the dirt bank of the sleeping creek. The nosecone aimed at the crescent moon, rising high above and burning, then disappears.

The fire reflects across the creek, the dandelions lit like skin.