You are
Errant in the fog, your fingers loosely clutching a handful of wildflowers.
Your hair is damp and sticking to your face.
Your dress is graced with peonies,
And fragranced with humidity,
The asphalt warm beneath your feet.
Light tears through the sky,
A jagged line touching down,
Striking the earth some point far off.
You think of your brother, age six,
Sitting in the dust, ants crawling up his arms,
Sunbeams bouncing off his head.
He smiles, digging holes.
He chews a piece of sour grass
And stares up at the clouds
"Our Father in the sky," he says,
And climbs inside the hole he's dug.
