It’s
the sound of squishiness
it’s
the wild wonder spelled in glass
steam,
printed atop the coldly sung surfacing
of
freshly coated skin
It’s
the carousel of the everyday
It’s
the lightning rod ever on display and
burgeoning
despite the squalls
of
abhorrent screams, seemingly always
attracting
dismay
It’s
the mystery of order
It’s
the conjecture of absolute reimaging
It’s
the way a pixel can represent
both
a dot as is, or a dot alone without
the
foundation of what one day
will
be a heart, a home
Of
moist collections,
wiggling
atop deep green blades and
slushy
puddles of childhood exuberance
that
sweetly spell out the squishy sounds
posted for Imaginary Garden with Real Toads.
