Daisy Season

I remember the shine and spark

of a metal pinball, as,

free from its mechanical maze,

it rode the winds of chance and id

to explore the greater world.

At first the winds were warm.

Then they became colder and colder,

untill they became frantically lukewarm.

The wide world was gone,

there was no more gentle wind.

There was only a pit,

a barricaded hole in the earth,

surrounded by shovels,

shovels, mocking, digging, and digging,

until the hole learned to dig itself.

Now there is no pinball.

There is only a bubble,

a bubble made of glass.

Deafening, transparent glass.

Glass that would sit 

and rot,

and take solace in the dancing pictures

of the world above.

It was only when the Earth shifted that the glass was cracked,

refracting golden, clear sunlight from the untapped world above.

Gently, it wrapped its soft hands around the splintered sphere,

as from its lips fell the sweet tones of Lazarus.

Arise, young one, for the world is waiting for you.

As the spring rain fell upon the upturned earth,

all that remained was a daisy.