The pages of a book are filled with color

No words or text, if you think to your fuller.

The art may swirl into flowers and kittens

White pearly moons etched into mittens

Firey flames crackling up oak wood trees

Winding up its trunk underneath the honey bees.

Some may think that this was being mad

But truly, fine real, it’s all a little girl had.

She flipped through the pages of her book

Studying each word, hook and crook

Each small blue bird that fluttered in the mead’

Gliding through the air inside the girl’s head.

Then there was the little boy

His life the opposite of joy

But once he opened up a book

It’s like his whole timeline just shook.

He watches small bears lap sunburst brown honey

Bright-neon fish, the kind of color that’s sunny

Flowers that blossomed through snow in the winter

Claiming that one must not take too many splinters.

Then, of course, the baby who was just born

Does not know a single word, nonetheless scorn

But does that mean that he does not imagine?

Does that mean that he could not possibly scavenge?

The baby, he has a book of his own

The story he lives in, not a book that was loaned

He can see all the geese from the window next to his crib

He can see the treetops, the leaves structured like ribs.

The pearly cotton clouds touching tops of skyscrapers

The huge, soft fluff a chorus of white papers.

The baby blue sky that lives atop all

All, the baby, the boy, and the gal.