Warm
// April 1st, 2009 // Writing
The girl with the wild red hair
Her perfume of cloves and cinnamon
With hands wrapped in strings
Wooden bangles and rings
As she sings
In the yellow hum of the sunny streets
She sings
With a crooked smile, and deep green eyes
She sings
The song without words
That nobody knows
And everyone hears
Who comes near
As she sings
The boy with the threads and the beads
In his chocolate locks
Holds the drum with his worn-away knees
As he beats
With the palms of his hands
As she stands
And she sings
He casts a glance and he grins
In the warm yellow glow of the street
And the people, they smile
As the song drifts above them
The beat of the drum
And the lilt in the flow of her tongue
I can see from a distance
As the crowd grows and fades
With the two staying true
To the song that belongs to
the now of their lives
And it can’t be remembered
But won’t be forgotten
The time they were lost in
Was theirs
It was mine
For a time
In the warm yellow glow
Of the street where I stand