dirt on the welcome mat

Tag Archives: fields

Our tongues lie down

Like breeze-brushed

Hayfields in the summertime,

Dry but alive

And dancing

In their own weary way,

Each golden grain

Saying much with little

Snake-like flicks,

Sharply sentencing

The sky forever to

The cracked clay.

Rain boots and clover


Leprechauns and kites.

Aquamarine and birthday


Buttercups and hot air

balloon flights.