One Early Summer Morning On The Mountaintop I Became One Above The Meadow

By Danielle Radford

Eighty-Eight steps I plop
Pointed, prickly green
Grass, it crunches
Bends beneath bare
Feet on its surface, damp
In its roots,

Sink, as if I am shorter than tomorrow
Sync, beneath the balmy hot sun

Quite possibly over 777 days beyond

Towered high in the sky
Birds chirp, croak
Birth and cry

Warm layers float, faintly
Fall in dainted waves like delicate
Heated sheets, It pleases
Prickles the pigment

It is cozy,


Soft, young,


My teddy bare
I can’t let go

Before the Christmas fire, doted upon in bow, “Oh, what a gift to bestow!”

It is Summer, but as snow
By the wish of a single blow
Dandelion dances,
Fleece-like fluff
Skitters and prances,

A waltz on a whispery whim
A waltz in the whispery wind

Whistling brews and coos
As if reborn.


Author’s side note:

In The Meadow

As an explanation, cushioned
Was I,
Dreamt in which seemed,
Pure snores

Until aromas unraveled
I bloomed in pine
Drifted in rich citrus
Blushed in lavender,
Lilac and lush, velvet rose
Petals and golden buttercups

Peaked to heaven like little stars on stems.

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