He kept them in a blue glass jar
on a shelf he’d made of electrons.
One winter’s night, he blew the dust
from the top, let them go spinning, spinning
into the wide eyes of a woman at a coffee shop.
The escaping sighs shimmered, rose slowly,
breathed deeply the freedom of release.

They tip-toed over shyness, shared
ladders to impossible places, danced
in old ballrooms in tuxes and taffeta dresses.
When he tried to call them back, they sang
“Too late, too late, we’re free!” The woman
held his eyes, nodded in celebration, helped
him see the sea of oceans open.

He became a weaver, weaving dream-like,
creating purple rain in the cities and deserts,
stone soldiers, incarnate in non-linear
time. She wore a red dress, lit the darkness
where visions lay. Their eyes turned blue,
broke shackles, limed and brittle. They became;
rain-glow without rain, shattered the jar together.


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Copyright ©1998 by Heather Long. All rights reserved.
First Place, 1999 Angel.ink Poetry Contest, Shadyvale Press
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