100 Mile Road

I stumble across a fire opal in the middle of the highway and pick it up and there’s a honey-bee buzzing inside. The opal is the honey-bee. And as I hold the bee in my hand, all kinds of flowers and roses and honey pour out of it and the bee turns into a nightingale and bursts into song as the first star of evening pricks the lilac edge of the horizon.

Tick tick

Time
slips through
my grasping fingers
as I search
for something tangible
to pin my spindling
thoughts to,
caught like threads
and tangled up.