He ran into the science lab grabbing every beaker in the supply room before running to the fridge and grabbing all diseased Petri dishes.
Setting everything out neatly on the counter he ran outside and dug through the earth with his bare hands in order to pull up the roots from the various perennials that had been donated to the college for its urban gardening program.
With his hands full of roots and his face full of sweat he ran back to the lab and stood at the sink to bath the roots in hot water. Unsure what was what he dried them off and walked back to the counter where the Petri dishes were and placed them down in a pile.
He sat staring at everything wondering what kind of storms might be created and what kind of rainbows might follow.
He took small portions of the diseased samples and mixed them with smaller portions of the roots he’d pulled. He did this over and over again until he’d taken from every dish and every root.
Walking over to turn on the burners he glanced at the sign on the refrigerator that said “No Flammable Storage Allowed” and realized he might not be able to save his work.
It took him an entire day of mixing before he was able to rest and meditate upon the fact that he was unable to crystallize the metamorphosis that had taken place over and over again.
The following week he picked up his wand to detail the devastations promised by the group of doctors and scientists for whom the diseases had been named or for whose cure would be delivered the following month, once advertisers had properly scared the community into believing the side effects promising future death were better than swallowing the fear of their present lives.
But in his heart he was a poet and a poet studies suffering in order to acquaint themselves with blood types to later detail the ways that life bleeds into death and then crystallizes into love to become more than its capacity for suffering.
He is the chemist, the alchemist, the queen, the king, the man, the woman and the child that falls and breaks his beak, flask, crown, heart and dreams in order to stand and put them altogether again to build a roomful of butterflies.
Once I found a poet in his lab and stopped him before he ran outside to the garden because it was my roots I wanted him to pull. He taught me about seasons and weather as I reminded him that everything he created was flammable and didn’t belong in the lab.
Every storm is a metamorphosis
As it passes let love hum you to sleep