Among green hills
Across the covered bridge
Yankee merchants trade
In quaint and rustic:
Half studied, half artless
All traditional.
Once a suave Euro-dude
My crew chief is a skinhead;
I am afraid.
At daybreak
Bright colors blossom
Topping stems of string.
Gigantic toys
Make us children again,
And small.
Field awash
With colors dance and sway:
A spectacle.
But who could stay
When my bright bouquet
Tugs at me
To be
Away?
Continued....