summer.

A tree's elbows fracture the sky
littered with clouds through which candle wax leaks.
Honey dripping off branches into a puddle of liquid sun.

The perfect cottage for you and I
crouches on the lip of a golden hill's peak,
cradled in the tree's hammock of spider webs spun.

Bent, crooked fence posts stand to attention,
guarding the melting butter cottage
like arthritic old men slowly slipping into the past.

Dandelions grow in every direction,
crawling over the edge of a ditch
and inching their way up the garden fast.

A carpet of velvet grass
grows in the space between the tiling
of the roof that slouches lazily.

A shallow pond of broken glass
hides fifteen dead ducklings
bathing in the water's opacity.