What the future won’t be
Will there be a day,
twenty years from today,
when dreams could be wrapped in shine,
sprinkled with glitter, tied with a pink bow?
Or, dandelions never scatter,
pushed away by zephyrs
and unnamed winds into sparse nothingness.
Can nightingales cry hoarse
and crows inspire poems of beauty?
Maybe the earth will flatten
and cats will push everything off the edges.
There probably won’t.
But if probability is relegated
from the world of assumptions
you will find me
bringing down an avalanche
of glitter on my dreams of
writing bad poetry about beautiful crows
and pushing unbreakable dandelions
off the edge of the earth.