Barbed-Wire Sunrise

Barbed-Wire Sunrise

I sing of freedom’s ring,
blazing blue and bullfrog green,
the mist that burned off the river so fast
You would swear the sun itself was a living thing.

I ask for friendship’s song,
toasted cheese and clam chowder,
board games, ground fog and pepsi all night long,
couches and blankets, quilts on the pasture hills
waiting to see the eastern glow, dawn’s early light,
we held hands, or laughed, or talked like philosophers
with white beards sitting on outcrops while
the rest pretended to listen.

You do not wish for innocence when
courage pushes you over barbed wire fences
one leg over the other
onto the next hill and still confused
that fences existed at all.

I want to early sing
again (late spring or summer early)
between the seams of yawns and dawn’s
late scene, peeking between clouds thin layers
like a paintbrush coating the hills with
the colors of the day.

I still wish for innocence since
age has made me wiser and I dare not snag
my new blue jeans on someone else’s fence
or risk the trespass my neighbor might not forgive.
But just want to play all night, scouring the cupboards
for the next late-night snack to take with us

To search the sky for the dawn again
(don’t ask me why, we never did then.)