By Michael Heavener
Blanket spread on fresh-cut grass, Reflecting on the things I've read. Until these lazy feelings pass I'm lying on my side instead. The poem I think I try to write, It hides, defies my seeking pen While yet another flirts in sight To tease until I comprehend. The trees are laying on their sides Framed in green on left and right. Imagine them as smiles wide In sunset colors that delight. Pink is white, now that's a sight That clouds cannot contain within. Orange the gold of fillings bright, Reds and plums refine the grin. Fingertips grasped 'round my pen Drawing cool florescent mists, Pinned to dusk's last rays of sun. Pink is white, my heart insists. What I write speaks as a child Wondering what and wondering how. As I lay upon my side and smile At things I'll never really know. I treasure all the poems I've read Joy of rhyme and words that sing Poetic strokes of colors, freed By cotton clouds when brushed by wind. I close my eyes to what I see; Orange and rose and red and green. Feel the colors inside of me Pink is white -- dusk's blush, unseen. Poem complete and mind is clear. For most of what I've seen tonight While lying on a blanket here Defends my claim that pink is white.