A poem about the summers in the Wasatch mountains where Teal grew up
These early summer days feed off of time,
Stripping light and darkness alike from the sky in cycles which feel mere minutes apart.
The sun rises and the sun sets with blue and rosy lips kissing the tips of each rolling hill,
As if the colors were trying to suck life from them, the grassy breasts of the west.
Weeds and flowers appear to be the same creature,
Their complexions, the colors of love's own breath.
Pink fields, the blushing cheeks of the seasons.
Each rainy day stands as beauty's beast,
And for a time these storm clouds serve as gravestone to the stars.
The mortal moon is devoured by shadow then is reborn,
Crowning itself king of the midnight heaven.
This dark sky procession is of endless age.
My voice, barren of pride, for next to this I appear poor but free.