Let's shoot the moon,
together make a slingshot against the odds,
power ourselves with the flowers exploding,
feed our engines with the pigments deepening.
I harbor the husk of previous seasons
itchy in my throat.
In the spring sighs
begin to lighten
and gather slight harkenings toward melody.
Let's shoot that moon,
break it open its craters
like an egg on the corner of our countertop.
We'll combine our hands into rocket ship algorithms
and take our chances on this most serindipitouds of seasons.