Handing out heartfelt
like tires for swings

Poetry is not novelty
nor poverty
but every grain
of beauty and sadness
that rests in between

I dream of you
where sun touches morning
and gentle stars retreat

I see you
where soul crisps on the edge
of a fiery football Sunday
where cursing is excused
(even for me)

Who cares what the neighbors think?

I place my fingers
into the softness of flour
and produce a perfect
homemade pizza dough

A dirty dishrag
lies limply
on the kitchen counter
and this is my love song.

From A Song Beneath Silence

by Apryl Skies

(©2009)