Glass Flowers

The young artisthas her auburn hair in a bunso it doesn’t catch fire.

She crosses a rusting yellow bridgeto work with heat, color and gravity:

just another mortalwho battles with the gods.

She labors inside the cavernof an old warehouse.

Ignores the humidity,carcasses of broken tractors,and rot rising from the river.

She shuffles like a boxerupon the dustand diesel.

Pulls apart the rotating glasswith metal tongs;

forms petalsover the steady breathof a blowtorch.

Colors them with cobalt,selenium, iron, copperand other oxides.

She loves innovation —the salt and dripping sweat of it.

She beholds hercomplex creationmade from limestone, soda ashand simple sand.

She wears glovesto keep the skinfrom burning off of her fingers.

And, in the cupof her handsa brilliant, brittle bouquet

of glass flowers.