New Records

Summery blankets of dough  
kneaded over plates of sinking storm  
scented in petrichor.  
The rising illuminating competence  
consummates tropical dreary.  
 
Eating clouds is a pasttime.  
The trees mellow.  
I was a green man  
with the face of a willow.  
The fall maple invokes me.  

I gush sap.  
Sappy, sweet story.
 
In the sun, I am happy.  
Feel me down.  
The summery blankets of dough  
taste better now.  
 
The storm sinks from the face to the gulf.  
In the late of the night,  
I am kin to the sun.