Cloud Teeth

Yesterday I thought about sewing the sky closed.

We were standing in a field, looking up 

at the blue mouth above us.  

The sun was a spoonful of sorbet

melting onto cloud teeth,

forcing them to hold its sticky weight.

I wanted to reach up and pull the sky together.

You would hand me the needle and thread,

and we would stop the sun from leaking onto us.

But we didn’t. You would have told me 

I had no right to close it.

Touch-me-nots tickled your legs. 

You called them sensitive plants,

as their feathery strands reached out,

offering you the spots of pollen perched on the end of their arms. 

You ground the pollen between your fingers 

and forced open the leaves trying to close at your touch.

The sun dripped. The clouds stayed still. 

Those plants were lucky to have your attention,

even for a second.