Here's a silly little poem I wrote:
On an autumn yellow field
On its edge
Next to a hedge
I lie
And watch the painted clouds drift by.
They cover nearly all the sky
And gray the field on which I lie.
But sometimes, through their orange-blue shadows
Sometimes, the Sun will shine
And light their peaks like golden wine.
Then they close, and reach the hedge
Up, over, and now past its edge.
And as they shut the Sun's bright eye
I wonder
Who longs more for wind and sky
And sunlit wings on which to fly
They or I?
