Trapped. In a box. Under a ceiling

that’s too old. Above wood that creaks

louder than an owl's screech. Left alone,

above Neo-classical wood, left open

for longer than an hour’s peak, is the

modern typewriter that I use to write

my poems. Sensational. Snow’s onset

seems imminent. Storms a’ raging.

Temperatures dropping. Let me show

you what it’s like outside.

The grass is stiffened by the rigid frost that overlays it. 

The swing set that we’ve bought in ‘16 bleeds a tarp of brown.

Motionless, the pines erect themselves as pins in a bowling alley.

Tall. Very tall. Perhaps equalling the length of four buses lain vertically.

Nature’s best features are captured by curiosity—

for how come Queen Mab’s intuition strikes me while

I sleep?—picturing the orchard that I grew up with

waking alongside me in the fields.

Above my eyes. I close my eyes.

I see the pitch-black ceiling above me.

As this eternal rest carries through dawn,

dreams materialize of a friendly return to childhood,

basking in that summertime sunshine that 

Mom always promised me at the local park.

Closing my eyes, colors arise. Orange, blue,

green, white, and all of the other mish-mosh colors

that you would find during autumn.