It can pray every day but it won't help with the green skin. The green skin represents some kind of molting. It feels sick. The room spins. The great outdoors isn't so great and is too far away anyway. Pressure behind the eyes mean pressure on the mind.
Then, all at once, things clear up. The air thins. The auto-tune becomes actual singing. The million dollar prize gets cancelled. Hunting season ends. The truth is written on a fortune cookie. The pills start working again. The calls get made. The call backs get made. The instruments play themselves.
All is light, ease, shadowy warmth, breeziness. It's raining eggs. It's raining life. It's raining green grass.
She opens her eyes, so big they encompass the whole grove, the whole world. So big they even make room for the past.
Come my love, step into the garden of roses. This is the evening of roses. This is the evening that comes every seven years when there is no war. This is the morning of roses. This is the morning of dewdrops. Neither of us have to put on our uniforms this morning. Neither of us have to clean our rifles. Neither of us have to get our tickets punched.
Defending the garden of roses is exhausting. I am exhausted. You are exhausted. He, she, or it is exhausted. Don't step on the egg. Don't let anyone else step on the egg. Don't touch the egg to move it to some place safe. Don't scare off the mother by getting too near the egg. Don't sit on the egg to keep it warm. Don't imprint yourself on it. Let the egg hatch into a baby rosebush. Be careful not to cut yourself in the garden of roses or roses will grow from the cut and you will end up roses.
Someone is throwing cinnamon around. Someone is singing quietly. Someone is extinguishing a candle in a dented tin cup of wine. Someone else is in the garden with us, or someone will be, or someone was.