I am dehydrated grass
singed at the tips
by the scorching sun.
I am the horizon where that sun rests,
the soft transition
of an early evening with a vast
Vermont-like sky.
I am an aged Polaroid photograph,
trapped in a dusty attic,
humble and wise.
I am sour milk, causing
alerted taste buds
and twisted tongues.
But I am also a honeysuckle.
The comfort
hidden in the dark
of the mysterious greenery.
A sip of nature's luscious candy.