and over

the pass

there is a little brook

beside a grove

of mango trees

along with the transient

drifting smell

of buttercup rum

in the light breeze

of the early afternoon

the sky has been clothed

by the Great Painter

with streams of conscious white puffs

staring blissfully down at the rolling hills of grandeur

sitting alongside this waking dream of 

New Day

we sit near the brook

in a humble and happy valley

overlooking life

overlooking time

there is a book we’re writing

though neither one of us hath scribed 

but a breath 

and a picnic basket of memories

rain clouds ensue

yet we are elated 

for we know 

that we both will be each other’s galoshes

and rain jackets