Voila called and said you’re passé, offering to return your lab coat and reading      glasses; Azalea called and said you’re next to drop your petals to the ground,            but have heart, there’s always next year as long as you keep your roots; the rain

called, said there’s no use hiding in the house, and you won’t always remember          an umbrella; the ocean called, three times at least; the Earth called and said your ancestors are fine and cozy; Green called and said the sap isn’t always so sticky,

and don’t sweat that red dye; a star called but didn’t leave a return number; the     Moon called and said remember the ocean path and the arc across the sky; the

Sun called, reminded you not to drive chariots you can’t handle or go building        wings with wax; your father called and warned you not to wear strange coats;           your mother called and she wants you to call her back when you get the chance.