my winged Queen,
what is it that you carry in your cherry red plane?
I imagine it to be nothing more than dust of the country you last visited; the one with an incendiary sun and birds of prey which eat lizards, their guts spilling onto hot stones.
You are a dark angel of smoke monsters and clacking engines.
I had feared your coming.
Yet your plane swoops innocently above the mountain tops and through fog rings.
It buzzes across the Great Lake, connecting two continents on a slip of earth.
Then it descends, landing on a grassy airstrip greeted by white horses and steer with creamy throats.
The lizards dance, their heads bobbing, and the birds of prey perch in a nearby tree, watching as they clean their feathers with hooked beaks.
Then you, my Queen, step out of your plane in your blue satin heels and linen dress made of golden thread.
The sunlight holds your hand and cloaks your shoulders like a cape.
Your hair is a color wheel of complements.
A train of wild flowers blooms with each step that you take, the dust from your heels its watering can.
How foolish I was to think that you would bring ruin to my patch of heaven.
I realize now there is no such thing as entropy in the lands that you’ve touched.
You shock us all into immortality.