She wakes up to the storm, and she
is a scrap of markered notebook paper
, she belongs to a child, and the rain
makes her colors run beautifully.
The misplaced reds and blues
begin to blend; the green of grass diffuses
into an otherworldly fog
spotted with what were once
daisies, with their hearts of gold,
or yellow roses—
a token of friendship extended
to the watery world, which accepts it gladly.
The petals are all caught up in the lightning.
Her laugh is thunder rumbling.
And as she soaks it all up
she folds into herself a little
to prevent tearing. Some people will say,
“She has lost her edge,” but she knows
she is borderless potential building—
her spitball soul is locked and loaded
, aimed and ready
to take down the fiercest father gods.