Funny how we woke up in the morning
and pretended that tomorrow never happened—
strutted naked in mirrors celebrating our youth,
laughing, knowing suns and moons couldn’t do the same.

We borrowed our arms from the fridge
and peddled bicycles with bad breath—
trading war stories ‘cause we knew
if we came back alive
life would still be the death of us.

The frost is always the whitest
On the corn-crib and the barn,
The house is always the quietest
When folks are asleep on the farm,

The locusts and crickets the chirpiest
Though they may not stay in tune,
The darkness is the nightiest
When there is no moon.