Thursday, June 16, 2011

Neverland is a place in the south.

Waiting for that moment.

Driving and all the windows are down.

A fight between hair and wind. And wind wins.

Trees and lots of trees and more trees,

And, soon, to be only silhouettes of trees,

Once the sun sinks low enough.

But not just yet.

The sun still shines, not bright enough to burn,

So the sun glows, maybe. And not shy.

Don’t look away. Stare.

That sky.

Pink and purple. Still blue, too.

And kind of orange and red.

And there’s no real rainbow,

Because there’s been no rain,

But the colors are all there.

Waiting for that moment.

The sky goes dark,

And the sun is almost ready to set or sleep or hide.


Everything is visible, still.


There they are.

One flicker, and two, and ten.


Shining stars, but not in the sky.

In the weeds.

And on the hay bales.

And across the fields

And through the trees.

They blink on and off in a perfect, chaotic rhythm.

All at once.

Five years old again, and fairies might be real.

And Neverland is a place in the south.

The whole world is a magical, sparkling wonderland.

This is that moment.

1 comment:

  1. I, too, grew up in the south--cicada songs, and lighting bugs in a jar, and mosquitoes eating my ankles up while the dew fell on my head as well as the grass--my brother and sister and I staying outside until the itching and blood-loss and exhaustion drove us inside. This is a lovely poem.