I came out of the pink tunnel
hearing everyone’s music but my own
This was the land of flowers.
In April the world passed over ideas–
(poetry unites on it’s own scale).
I turned the last page
of the musicians work
I forced reflection but only felt awe.
The grass grows at an unbelievable pace.
If you stand still
dew will form before you–
rise on rain channels and window panes,
cover places you only look on the cold days.
I returned to the pink tunnel
during the dark hour–
to witness it
glowing and collect petals on my soles.