Yellow lint sailing in the sky.
If you catch a dove in white, watch the hues break into sparks of lust.
Cloudy foam always match dotted blues that hide in the sway of colored branches.
Melding moods erupt for dance when rays of warmth envelop the chill of moodiness.
Bright headlights storm movements of feet when caressing paved roads without cars is sport.
When you stand long enough to refuse a shield, you can hear the chirping of nature’s soundtrack.
Never let the dove fly too far away.
Running for it can seem like the task for minute catchers who look away when the beep of hard shells disrupt communion.
Up the hill, there’s a mini-bar that shelves an array of watchables, that you can sip on lazy afternoons.
Further into the open space is the seated fare that stays empty, unless you act out the invitations that eventually arrive.
When you head back down in the headiness of soaked emotions that simmer in sweaty giddiness of moments, keep eyes and mouth open for spoonful of jollies.
They all taste like mush, and so the smile awakens passersby, who reply with searching eyes that find it years later.
Splashes in imaginary ponds can yield minted gems, that reopen to what was lost in the cake of snow and browned mush.
Basking at the pulpit of the yellow globe, as it spices up sheets of views in Kodachrome, the black and white figures in strolling mode are immune to the sparkles of heaven.
Reveling in what nobody knows, the crown of magic can alight on command when senses pick up sight and sound in unison.
A walking treasure chest of bounteous pleasures is the mutiny of connections that revolves in circular joy.
When hearts uproot the chest with basking thunder of an overused compass, that’s when you let the sunshine in.