Thursday, September 1, 2011

cold/damp and orange

One little boy                                                                                            
whispers away,                                                                                              
waiting into the darkening day,                                                                                              
the scents of baking bread
sounding out loud on the air.                                                                                              
He stole the lamp from the moon,
but told her he'd describe her anew-
that he'd paint her head to toe
in a thousand fragrant hues
and whistle in the dark a perfect tune,
as the fireflies hover in the nightskies, 
as the junebugs dance in the green grass.


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