Who has picked up pencil colors,
Such deep red colors,
And lighted a little red fire,
on that pine shrub:
Who, O Who, has made
this red cardinal!
On this colorless white
morning, who made my
morning, lucky with red!

© Manan sheel.

Oh broken-hearted boy
How your lips sting
Your hips swing
I love you, my only toy

i bare my shoulders to the wind's chill.
i sit next to you on the car ride home.
i watch as shadows gather on your skin.
i pine for twilight after the sun sets—

and still hear you in the pine air
and still feel you in my pining breath
and still hold you in each pined sigh.

to take off
to dip low
to feel the chill breeze
behind my old feathered wings
to close eyes
to glide high
to smell pine and wood
and other things of this world
to soar
to explore
to rely and to trust
on wings to do what they must
to taste the flavor of fall
to sing and to call
to be the creature
who's existence is most envied of all

i wonder, at what age
you became out of my reach;
i wonder, if i even
tried reaching for you

i know that history leaves its mark on everyone
(but not many have been hurt by the tracks
left behind in the dirt
like you have)

you can sit there for days, weeks, months
while we contemplate your fate,
tossing the choices in our hands
like dice

you hear the word expendable
mumbled in countless conversations
and wonder, at what age
you became in our reach

you think of the family you left behind
and hope they will find their way to tennessee
to a better life that is  
quiet. peaceful.

will they miss your selflessness;
your keen, incisive way with words;
the bumps and hills of your rough skin;
the smell of your perfume?

i miss your evergreen smile;
your poetry;
your skin against mine;
the wonder in your eyes

I smell the morning fragrant
sunlight peeking through the pine
wiggling wet dew
I wake up
rushed out of the dream
trying to realize the dream