There is a little girl who lives inside my hand.
Her mind composes itself from bee songs and bird flowers.
We usually fly around together in raindrops the storms make.
And she says: Yes! and Yes! and words that are ghost whispers.
Her friends come to visit from under the ground or out of the empty sky.
And we have little parties that catch fire and burn down the world.
When there are enough colored ashes, we make skeletons out of them.
These eventually get into mothers and emerge later as actual kids.