Dining Out

There I see, one of many trees moving to a bluer breeze beneath the sky. Bristled branches bending with the weight of many cones; a dripping sap of needles to a lap of many days. Bluest tented sky above me, where occasional clouds pose as thoughts, white-painted smiles on a baby-blue face. Then, trees of green serene against that high blue sky, their green-tipped spears piercing the pillows of white. One proud curving cloud escapes outside this birth of green, lingers above the trees, whose moments pass for years, and the world appears to blink like I, in disbelief. Each blue hue, each white, each blinking-winking light of magic urges retinas to free their water. What heart cannot devour this, a honey world of freshness on the day I share my breakfast on this porch with Mother Earth.