He stood in the rushing waters,
Hands full of river sand.
It glistened wet and glittered
In the disc’s radiant wheel.
He flung it,
And nations and histories
Were quickened and created.
He pushed evolution along its path
With the touch of his life surreal.
The fates cut burlap
And tossed them in the eddies.
He took some, re-threaded them,
Weaving the mighty tales.
“But,” he told me sweetly,
“The best lives we’ll make here,
Right out of cotton.”
It bloomed and blew on the river bank,
Bale after pop-corned bale.
-jenn long
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