Blue clouds and white sky,
served softly in a cone.
Clouds melt into angels,
that make bubbles,
that pop.

While feet walk on fish,
strewn on deserted paths,
brought by feathered ghosts
from ponds in high up trees.

Heads are under hats
that are mantis green,
and made of lawn.

We’re polishing our souls,
and buffing them,
until they shine,
so much,
that they rival the suns.

And from the lawn,
we hear the roar,
of a little lion—
a yellow, dandy little lion.

Copyright © Quirina Roode-Gutzmer 2012.
All rights reserved.