CHIHULY GREEN GLASS ROD ON TWO OWSLEY DOSES. by Michael Forbus The gree glass thinks it is Royal Jade. It is certain of it. The Rod acted like royalty. Washing daily with the dew from the leaves and always had its head turned from me. I am a plant which blooms a couple times a year. But this glass rod has a year round handsome quality. One that kept all my plant friends a mite jealous. There was nothing to be jealous of. We were slightly off the grid. We were the root that humans took to become the jaguar in Brazil. They drink the tea with a certain fear. The fear of having to tell the truth and reveal themselves. We plants have no choice. We are automatically transparent. It is a naked sort of feeling. The rain, the furious rain pounded them as they begin to communicate with God and they took more medicine and began to stare at us, we plants. We knew they were going somewhere. Somewhere special. As we breathed the air they exhaled we also inhaled a certain mist. The mist of the emerald rod. We became handsome and shiney. The medicine rubbed off on us and all of a sudden the usually staid background for us green plants began to turn colors. It was so beyond what the humans see. We had visited the Grand Magician and they had sat and thought and thought. prose by Michael Forbus