And then we mounted a hillside filled with blue daffodils.
“These weren’t here before.” Bluebells — fairies ring them
when they want to hold a gathering. The mountains are
hills where we’re going and gold robes their shoulders
like the city itself is noble. Waiting in the parking lot
Jewel came on the radio … these hands are small
I know… I leaned my head on Sarah’s shoulder.
The woman driving had cropped hair
and bare arms: and she said
we would make it
Gala Thomas is a poet recovering from a head injury in Olympia, Washington. She got the name “Gala” by accident, when a Benedictine nun switched the i for an l. She is keeping the new name as a reminder that life is a pageant of glorious and grotesque proportions.