Summer is golden,
true blue, marbleized
in sky indigo.
Life in greenery
where words make soil,
and I grow safely.

In country meadows,
I often daydream
that amber granules
are pure ivory,
and they do whisper
such sweet poetry.

Such poetry sings
to sad sapling youth
in pan flute piping,
ocarina tones,
and ceramic flames
which become her eyes.

Yet it’s a slow burn,
where, I have some time
to thank the candles
for toppling down,
in their chance meetings
with my tender nerves.

And I, her fledgling,
still gaze, longingly
at reeds that were homes
at some point, before,
and swamp water runs,
floods my very heart.