It tastes like the Sun’s warm syrup
dripping off dew glazed Marigolds
an hour after morning’s dawn.
Rolling green plains toasted to perfection
smell sweet on the evanescent breeze
blowing over bakery fresh bread.
The new leaves in the trees quake
with noon’s convection, where
we’re sheltered by the shade
while we eat on our blanket
all day and never get full.
May 15, 2011
May 15, 2011 at 5:01 PM UTC
It tastes like the Sun’s warm syrup
dripping off dew glazed Marigolds
an hour after morning’s dawn.
Rolling green plains toasted to perfection
smell sweet on the evanescent breeze
blowing over bakery fresh bread.
The new leaves in the trees quake
with noon’s convection, where
we’re sheltered by the shade
while we eat on our blanket
all day and never get full.
Request permission to use this poem