Inspired by a word list at The Sunday Whirl
She wired the stars in the silence of deep space, she who was named The One In Charge Of Storms. The air was fried with static, her hair wild and electric, marring the view of the Milky Way. There were complaints from others.
Oh, this was only my first draft, she said. I thought they’d like to look up at night and see lights, to show them when a storm was passing.
With a shrug, she let the stars fall everywhere and dreamed up a new idea about space, or maybe it was about time.
Instead of sand, let’s fill every hourglass with stars, she said. It will be so beautiful, they won’t even cry that it’s passing. After all, minding manners, taking turns, they can flip the hourglass over again and again.
Puff Of Smoke Poems 