green

When the sun drifts down through rifts in the bark of trees and the bark of your bark i think
bite
because the apple's only ripe for a bit on the branch and it really couldn't hurt to taste a bit of
sweet
like the sweat on my shoulder and the dirt of the river, and the heat of the moment so
hot
it's the sun, but baking is filling and i carry round spoons and if we end up with pie it's a product of
picking
the sweetest of moments and seeing the bugs and breathed in space that was holy
our
own like the green of the leaf where the caterpillar lounges and thinks to himself
how
life mimics me - it's the color of my feet that makes the day verde and if you get cold just put on a cape
and no matter your whim or fancy or reason, i know you're not drunk, just a
lush
like the trees.