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.