saintcasima

“Did you hear about The Lamb?” said the lettuce. “Struck again last night. A mangold got munched.” The aconitum’s flowers quivered. “Horrible. But let’s discuss something happier. How are the auditions going?” The lettuce shrugged. “A salad’s coming up I’d like to be picked for.” “Well, they’d be fools not to choose you,” said the aconitum. “You look so crisp. So tender…” The lettuce stared at the distinctly herbivorous expression. “Oh, thistles. You’re The Lamb, aren’t you?” “‘Fraid so.”

petal cupped palm, handful of sunshine at twilight, the bees drink luminescent nectar and become fireflies black seta molting to the glass-bodied bulb writing in comet trails, a child's first sparkler little lightning bolts embodied entrapped shooting stars incarnate drunk on igneous gold, they do not notice as the virgin flower sinks to be born again tomorrow a warm-blooded goddess baptized by the night