futures.

the world is melting into the hands of our children.
the moon paces an orange shore.
buckets of her ringlets hang over the dense sand.
you are in awe of what you are.
the ocean shakes her feather eyes.
tea-green waves whistle spontaneous songs.
do not ask the questions
your mothers can already answer.

and when your shifting hair is gone
when there is gray over your eyes
and when her stomach has grown for you
when your children have been named
when the orange sun still dances for you
hold her, still, in the holy light.