Lilies sprout,
butterflies rise up from their petals.
A new blade appears,
shining in the dirt,
flint sharp.
The beautiful things
aren’t dead,
one says.
True, echoes another.
Did I hear that right?
But all I’m met with
are bright, cherubic smiles
thrown over their shoulders
one after the other.
I take their meaning.
Jump fences, barbed wire,
float on dreams
left swirling up from the dust
on the trail.
Switchblade the lasso from your wings,
dig those boot heels in, girl,
fly.
For Dora’s prompt at dVerse Poetics