I wish I had a witty intro in me, but I just don't right now. Unless... was THAT witty? I certainly hope so, or else I've lost my touch.
Cinnamon Bun
first, the smell
strong and sweet
the kind that drifts to you
then slowly fills the room,
fills the house
next, the sight
bouncing toward us
on plates in her hands
twirlyswirlywhirly
sugar glistens, icing gleams
third, the texture
hot
steaming
and pillow soft
smooth
melts to nothing in your mouth
last, the taste
beautifully delicious
lingers on the tongue
fresh to the last bite
sharp cinnamon
sweet sugar
too soon...
it's gone
A Meal (this is dedicated to Tory Inglis)
Puzghetti,
long and tender.
Garlic oil
fresh basil
and vegkebles:
tomatoes and spinach.
Twirling, slurping, chewing, tasting.
Polished off so quick.
Bellies full,
faces smiling,
hunger gone...
for now.
When it's a Ode, you know it's bad. I would not reccomend reading this one. If you ignore that advice: no, this was NOT written by my 22 month old niece, it just seems like it because its so dreadful.
Ode to Plant
Tall brown stem
Big green leaves
Sun lit gem
Picked fresh please
Smooth round pot
Cool black dirt
Takes it's spot
Now inert
A beautiful flower
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