Sunday, June 5, 2011

Tasting the Dripping Light of Days in Laughter

A content hush took off its trousers

left its muddied socks by the lake,

and plunged deep into reflective waters

so that its very nature

may swell with the refreshing burst

held by summer and surplus sunlight.

Restless head-spins

twirl the treetops into shifting greens,

the mailbox closes as Mr. Postman drives away

a shutting motion revives a morning notion

and like the treetops

the day begins to spin away

from the kitchen to the hammock

out past a voice that soars

into the valleys

traversed by both smog and sweat.

The tones ringing out the windows

sleep in a chorus of drone

while tired bodies stretch themselves

across ruffled bedsides and on top

the painted shine of each others arms.

When the chorus echoes rise

taking the sun in both day-dreaming hands,

these eyes will peel free

to shudder and then marvel

in a foam of grass-covered hues

at the burning day and its fruits

which fall into our soft woven baskets

as the bugs taste the tiny juices

that burst forth when the fruits

splatter against the basket bottom.

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