It must be a shock for dark coal
to wake from its mossy dream
to the sound of heavy hummingbird wings.
It must seem strange to trade in ancient
sunlight beams for artificial bling
that snaps through silver strings
to light our nights while today’s waves
slant through windows, make my swamp cooler
chug and blow through yet another hot summer.
I want to live under this sun’s power,
not the fuel from a thousand-year-old bough.
I want to feel the heat inside me,
to sip it like rain from a drunk honey bee.
I want it to lighten my blood like wine,
to remind me how thirsty we were last
summer, how carefully the grapes
collected each drop in their oval orbs
while through the kitchen window
we listened to summer’s music
and brewed our morning coffee
blithely burning those would-be diamonds,
those knights in sooty, sequestering armor
that rumbled past us on an endless, forgotten train.