temporary miracle

she tucks a flower in her hair
on the first day of spring,
seventy five degrees of sunshine
flushing her skin oh-so-slightly,
summer colors in the form of
soft cloth
playing
against her knees.

she’s still not used to the coolness being all right-
she’s spent so long in tight jeans and
sweatshirts
that block out
all weather
(good and bad alike)
that really feeling the sun and
tasting air as fresh as a watermelon
(red frost is her favorite color,
all of a sudden)
feels like nothing short of a
mistake.

just for today,
her job is to look through tinted glasses
to save herself from the burning sky,
lose herself in someone else’s words
and forget their scent,
choosing instead the smell of damp, sweet
soil
and life.

her story is a quickly deflating balloon
and her job is, not to rescue it,
but to keep it from sinking completely
for another few
seconds.