hanningy

on the water floats 

lovely and green and pale pink 

a flock of frail birds.

Tell me we'll be ten forever 

and I'll ride my scooter to your house 

every day, and never learn 

not to trip over the crack on your driveway. 

i, like many poets, have wondered a million times what it would be like to be a bird: soaring high above the trees, unburdened by life's banal worries. something primal and free. 

the sound of laughter through sun-spotted trees,

i dreamed last night we were fae frolicking 

in rings of toadstools, in and out of trees.

fireworks went off in my head as 

two weeks ago we were stuck in the plains 

somewhere in the midwest with no service. you pulled out 

some 1999 AAA member's map and said 

"crack it open," and i still loved you, even then. words flowed