In the meadow of impossible mornings,

the daisies exhale in a trumpet’s blush,

petals fluttering like embarrassed fans as

the air fills with laughter disguised as wind.

 

Rosehip hiccups, clouds of lavender smoke,

their thorns rattling like spoons in a drawer.

Lilies bow low, releasing secret choruses,

a brass band hidden in their stems.

 

Children chase the gusts,

catching invisible balloons of fragrance,

while the sky itself wrinkles with mirth,

blue fabric stitched by invisible seams.

 

And I, wandering through this orchestra,

learn that Beauty isn't always solemn—

it giggles, it sputters, farting flowers fair,

a garden of jokes blooming in full colour.

 

 

 

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