My neck with all its hardened troughs and peaks
Is not unlike these rolling hills of green
And red and brown, from leaves that fall each night
Like all the little love-bites on my skin.
And aren’t these mosquitoes just like me,
Who comes to see the world before it falls
Asleep, all wrapped in blankets white and cold,
Before the leaves have joined us on the earth?
We see the sun at seven setting slow
And watch its more experimental work;
The lilac skies and clouds of peach delight,
As does the wide horizon’s amber crown.
But I am partial to the sun itself,
Whose blushing cheeks I wish that I could kiss
To thank for all the wonders it has made.
The blue hour is upon us. Shadows fade
As twilight stretches out the time, before
The rising of the tame and tender moon.
It’s time. For now, I must start heading back,
Or else I’ll walk in darkness through the trees
Mosquitoes use to make themselves at home.