M. Hank

Grandma used to make lemonade.

I won’t even attempt to write a poem about music- poems aren’t me. I’ve never been good at writing them. But a block of text doesn’t look as pretty. It really just looks like a rant. And I guess, that’s what it is.

Under the green jungle crown 

you silently go, 

Shimmers of light pattering 

down onto your soft, worn skin. 

She used to listen to the snow and think about how beautiful the world was, how magical.

How perfect, pristine, like a flower curled in a tiny fist.

Into the meadow we run together, 

Faces shining in the sun.

Beneath the starry sky we wander,

'Til what we seek is done.

We play and we laugh

We joke and we splash

In the waters of a shimmering lake.