Wind and rain strike the roof
And river the streets.
Flowers drown in a muddy
Mix of eggshells and ill leaves.
I wonder if they’ll survive.
At night the power goes out.
We bust out the candles.
Living sparks the non-living lumpy wax
Man. He melts the uncertainty
Of the dark with every flicker.
I poke needles in his liquid head.
Next morning the sky
Shows signs of recovery,
Its body a lighter shade of gray.
Remaining flowers are crowned
In crystal and hold jewels
Too heavy for its petals.
Prompt: First Writing Contest Prompt for December — 90 words exactly