sparkling with imbroglios of fortune
catching you with snaggles,
burying their burning tendrils in your palm.
Where is the symphony, the opera and the rat-tat-tat?
Would you settle for that field of growing grain?
Stalks whiskered with morning dew,
breaking the sunlight into laughter,
your touch as dear as astrophysics.
|Yellow Tulips, Genus Sureptitious, 9 years old!!|