and the crest of leaves
and the alarms of birds' songs
Like the bread and butter
I need
to sustain daily life
Is it in a southerner's blood
to feel alive
rocking on an open porch?
Or is it that
when the open air is gone
for a long time
You suffocate without
breathing it in?
Suns set, pines fall,
and the sky is a daily masterpiece
no artist can recreate
And we find these things
set before us
every minute
But smog covers our view
and says "It is like
any other day.
You have more important
things to do."
While the heart,
the artist's soul,
says, "Oh no.
I painted these hues
just for you...
So you would sit
and find nothing
but breathing to do."
