Crayon-Colored Skies

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In the summer heat, things turn hazy.
The pressure of ninety degrees blurs the vibrant greens,
Slurs the sapphire blues.
But when nomad breezes carry off the residue rays,
We can see the colors for what they really are.
The rays of sun stand brighter in the biting wind,
No longer just a playful breath of air.
The yellow beast groaning up the hill stands out against its backdrop;
Its primary vivacity clearer than ever.
The sounds travel crisply; we hear every crackle underfoot.
We think of the bright reds of apples on trees,
Of rosy cheeked children;
Of the trees topped with prisms of light,
That are most whimsical fancy of a strange, strange world.
We can still smell the waxy perfume of crayons,
Feel the paper labels beneath our chubby fingers,
See the bold bright colors slashing the page, outside of the lines.
Now’s the time when things feel simple;
What is so hard, when the grass;
Supple and damp from this morning’s rain,
Renewed by the cool-air clouds,
Green like no other, is there just for us?
To sit on, to play on, to feel between all ten toes.
What can be hard, when the grass is so cool?
When the yellow beast groans up the hill, bearing your children home,
And the cool-air clouds bring you scents of cider
Through the crayon-colored skies.





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