leaves paper the sky; spreading hands shielding
the blaze of a sultry day from the tinder box
crumble threading our journey through the trees
as pages turning diary like to once before
when youth’s lantern faces gleaming
we shone with song more deliciously ardent
than the apple buds’ danced imaginings.
the circle full, the trunks sawn and strange,
pressed to a paper of our own printed work
where we write of that day’s woodland walk
and those fierce rent wandering words
fixing forever breathing, igniting whole
the flame leaping blaze of those tiger thoughts
of that shady sunned apple grown afternoon.
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