Year of the Tornado

This is the day to confirm that every star
Is a brilliant seed on its way to becoming

A pumpkin. It is the morning to cushion
Uncertainty with a tyrannosaurus heartbeat,

A night to trust in the beauty of ice cubes
Dazzling as they do. This is the situation

In which a child on a beach carries a bucket
Of sand dollars, how they must have once

Napped moisturized in the high tide. It is
The success of candles spiraling on a

Chantilly Cake. This is the sunrise to be
Quiet for, to only ever ask for one’s shoes.

Then comes a condition of stirring from every
Utterance of dust, a status that calls for a

Furnace of tornadoes, sanctuary seen through
Glass panes. Then comes horsepower of vocal

Chords to vacuum a country’s illness. Then doubt
No longer breathes. Only the sureness, the full-

Bodied promise for all eyes to hear, for every
Set of hands to stomp noisier than the next.