Fancy Free
At the corner of a white street,
there is a dangling Apple Tree.
Counting clouds travelling by
and stars bathing in the sky,
he lazily extends his feet
to swing
in the sweet air of a late summer feast.
Tickling, he wonders -
before the thunderstorm brings
the temper, the awe,
will humming birds send kisses
whether Autumn
will host a Masquerade Ball.
Little does he know,
Night marches on
and Age
has fled for the Young and Fancy.