The Symbolists

The golden goblets
the silver symbols
crashed down on us
brazen stars falling
into a sea of flowers.

The good news was
there’d be no more
dinosaurs.

A few of us
we survived
underground
with the littles.

We dug tunnels
to a comfort zone
not exactly Paradise
but warm and moist
plenty of bugs to eat.

And we drew signs
on the walls waiting
for the dust to clear
above in the Dear
One’s celestial home.

We tilled the new land
built boats and bridges
peopled the prairies
where ran the rivers
down to the sea.

In church we celebrated
the symbols of the dinos
and prayed they’d never
return even their stories
in time seemed surreal.