and this sandbox is the Mojave.
The manes of Mom’s daffodils
take on the scruffy musk of lions
and crickets morph to a cloud of Noah’s locusts.
The stars overhead scatter down
into our jam jar
and we scoop them with our fingers,
sticky to our mouths.
The sun’s heat rests, dormant in the sand,
awaiting tomorrow’s release.
But for this night,
it is trapped beneath my back
and I am the barrier to everything.