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i have listened to the sounds of hydrangeas in the middle of the night
they whisper, almost inaudibly, of rain and fog and gray skies
of forests trembling at the thought of storms
of oceans unraveling in the wake of day
and the moon, i hear her too, at night
telling tales of stars and planets and black holes
of solar flares and lights in the night sky
she sings of nonsense and fire and women
of broken spines and flightless birds and things that will never shine like she does
so i stretch my legs and bruise my feet with pine cones and pink granite
skin so softly scratched by spruce and cedar
and as i walked, naked and transformed
there was fog and rain and gray skies
smoke and teeth, bones and blood
and the tales of hydrangeas
behind my eyes, beneath my skin.