Winged Burning Bush
Ridged, broad and corky wings.
Translucent—your yellow
Iris sits behind the morning veil.
Short season of striking
color. Greed spurs you, or hope
Huddled against the bursting
Of a cursed idea. It will
Spread like children, carried
By the breeze that tickles
Your lobed capsules. They catch
Like sails. You would unfurl and fly
Instead, dragging your webbed feet
In the face of becoming, pallid
Bolts of cloth ensconce you. A virgin
Steadfast and shaking checks the hem
For stains on her
pure white
wedding dress.
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