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.