When the cat’s away the mice shall play,
Roaming through fields set with sunlit days.
Sit, bask. Allow the flowers to fill palms of grace.
Waist high grass, leaves you half lost, half found;
Out of the forest crowned.
Warming the skin and moving slowly is the wild wicked ways,
Youth encapsulated, freed of burdens set ablaze or held below drowned.
Coming round the edges of your silhouette is a shadow, a friend.
Numb. You embrace the untouchable.
The unknowable that doesn’t exist.
Yet malingers, smiling.
Copyright, 2010, Christopher Baird--all rights reserved.
Contact me for reprint/posting permission.
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