Take my weakness, it hangs like a limp rainbow. Take the blue and the orange, the fuzzy pink and the splashes of black. You see them all beyond the lens of the image, worlds away from the thick coating of cheap sentimentally and projection. You see it all, the dying songbirds, the singing crickets, the little girl lost in the arms of an oak. How you can hold it all? Will I ever know? The golden cauldron of your chest is their grave and their birth. Where death and life move together like parallel lines that spurt off electrons and grow fields of sunflowers and daises. Your heart is surrounded by a massive cave of wonder, the chamber that opens despite the westward winds and the storms that rise like Vikings from the sea, just a blink and the bearded men are more than ghosts, a breath, and gentle winds hurl their snow. But it matters not, you are warm and the butterflies make a rainbow of you.
Your golden wand is the one found in dreams, where mountains dance like frogs and orange crickets fly with three foot wings. The cauldron spins, churning what I have given, turning what has been taken. The chant is quiet, still…contained…my ears lack the strength, my attention scatters before the voyage, but still, I can see the trail made of breadcrumbs laid for the witch, I can see the trail of candy for the little girl. Which one will I be today? The magician on the mountaintop looks to the clouds. Black storms rise and fall at your command, rainbows break into a thousand particles or scurry to form broad arches.
What is it you wish?
What is it you need?
I watch from the tattered lip of a pink rose petal, watch while the elements bend to the will of a bearded dragon. Flames, rain, wind…they come in intervals to match the moon. The rose bounces in a sudden breeze and I look up, up, up the side of the granite bolder, it reaches well beyond the clouds.
I sit here with a picnic basket and a thin little blanket. I sit here with my neck arched and searching for your form among the boundless white and blue and gray. I look for the black silhouette and the golden cauldron and jeweled staff. I wait for the unseen. I wait for the feeling in my chest to rise and rise, for the bubbles to burst. I wait and watch, listening to the sound of chatting birds and the blades of dying grass that swap nearly identical stories. Like a blanket they have grown, but each has its tale of sun and vanishing rain and the lovers that have kissed upon them. If I close my eyes I can hear the murmuring of the trees. They sing like a chorus and if I listen closely, their sounds multiply like a cacophony of doves. I look for you, for your shape, for the curves of a glowing black cloud.