AvaClaire

I could not quite tell
where they came from
Their little black 
dresses
starting fires between 
abdomens
faces glittering
with honey
like blades of grass
like newborn pups
I told them to leave

There once was a middle-aged fool who thought himself swell
But he had not the slightest bit of brains as far as his mother could tell
Since he had never been smart a day in his life
He had no job and no friends and no wife

She wipes her hands
on a frilly skirt
fingers stained 
with blue berry ink
basket swaying
on the ground
with fingers laced on its
round belly
she smiles

He shows the horses
to their awaiting troughs

As a bird fidgets
with a seed
the girl taps
the reload button
over 
and over
till her finger
is smushed flat
and her eyes
are stained
with pixels
nothing new
comes when she 
reloads 
again

They were fussy green sprouts

If the water drowned their roots

Their fingers would turn yellow

And their soil black

Gurgling in their plastic cells

If I took off their roof

Their lanky legs

It comes quickly
capes billowing 
riding April's horses
across the lake
an old picture in my phone
that works a smile onto my face
blushing my cheeks
with nostalgic memories
it whispers in the forecaster's ear