Mischievous wind blows
On the sun kissed field
Graceful barley bows
To indicate its servility
Under the whopping sky.

Soon it is time for a
Masterful peasant
To humbly show its
Joy and respect
And worship the harvest.
In the sun kissed field
Under that golden shield.

My foggy breath crawls up the inside of my throat
And lunges past my teeth
With a happy turbulence.
Spreading over the crest of the hill,
It graces the treeline with joy
And disappears deep into the forest.

Stags wander through it's remains,
In an absolute nobility
And earthly humility,
As they catch the sound of icy grass beneath my boots
Bounding far, like children who
Imagine creepy-crawlers biting at their feet.

My appearance scatters the sleepy branches
Of somber firs,
And new-born scotch;
Leaving them to dance and flirt
With the timeless frost, suspended in air
Lifted and churned by my foggy breath.

Resting against the mossy logs
Just beyond the treeline,
I watch brittle flakes fall
And blanket a gently robust field with crystal
That comes to a final rest and conclusion.
My day has gone to waste.

Rise and shine all ye people
Now is the mornin'
Of a new beginning

Put on all ye work boots
Get ready for the labor
Which garners man's favor

Get out on the fields
Toil till the sun goes down
Do this without no frown

For this is the cycle
Morning in and morning out
To reap and sow the blessings abound

• The place where we first met and you asked me if I was sad or it just was that way my face looked.

• The streets where you walked on the road and I on the curb so that you wouldn't have to hang to one side because I'm lower than you.

• My red hoodie where you'd put your hands up my sleeve and hold my hand when your hands got cold.

• The field where we stood hugging for so long and you first told me that you liked me and wanted to kiss me.

• The bench out by the lake where we used to sit tight and watch the stars.

• Near the school bus where people saw us holding hands and I finally felt like we were together.

• By the bonfire on a field near the school where we sat and measured who had the biggest tummy.

• The room where you laid me down in the bed and we started cuddling but someone knocked on the door so we had to stop.

• Japan where we spoke like nothing was wrong even though nothing was right and that was the last time we spoke.

My eyes search
the navy air
but are unable to
depict the
soft features of the rabbits
loping tentatively
through patchy glebe.

I wish it was spring with
bright white fruits.
Just ripe.
Not summer, because 
in the summer we cloy 
under the fat cream trees.

I want to see you,
and the wild hares,
but the twilight's 
hiding 
its secrets from us.