Oxandine

Pieces of foxes came around in a cloud. Chunks of doomed soldiers, bits of wars they disappeared in. We had gathered dried petals of unrequited love. The warping reflections of starry skies on water so gently disturbed as to be nearly still. An army of distinct feathers marched, upright, in patterns that, from above, formed these words. And your eye? It was the One. It was the hand of your heart, who organized the congregation’s root. We had streams in which flowed tiny bones instead of water. Music made from parts of lives woven into wonder. The sun became children, and the children exploded in every possible way and color.