|I meant to write about an old, rambling mansion, perhaps nestled in the hills of a homely Irish outpost. Rather, I think I wrote more about it's inhabitant, it's summer guest. I hope you enjoy it nonetheless!|
Clover surrounds the structure
Like a strange night,
A moss-colored linoleum
That spreads it’s claim
Across the mountain plains
Like a preacher on his last sermon
The trees don’t bother to listen,
They already know the
Endlessness of a holiday summer,
Serendipity of butterfly and
The strange-house gypsy,
A marriage of sparkling
Peri-winkle of her iris
And the smoky indigo of wings;
Her sandaled toes that snag the
Over-growth like a flesh briar.
Brash as a new idea,
Light as the white matter of poppy,
She braves the vast prairie alone.
The birds find her absurd
In her twisted hemp and colored pens,
Each one eager for the soundstage
Of her new company, they join
Her merry song and it becomes
The voice of morning, high notes
Cracking the creaking sweep
Of sacred pines in their lazy-sway.
She speaks to the holed rabbits
Of words like love and peace
And they, not comprehending language,
Still understand that the newly-lit
Windows mean exotic food, that her
lavender-scented hands mean safety.
Written for a prompt at Imaginary Gardens with Real Toads.