Muse
A boy
(a young boy)
stands between
myself and the trees,
evergreens that stretch
on forever skywards.
Sunlight dapples
a face that laughs
shyly.
What's his name?
I wish I knew,
this boy who has
autumn-leaf hair
and warm brown eyes,
and countless freckles,
like sepia islands
scattered over his face.
Is he looking this way?
I wish he was.
O! this
distant yet lovely
summer-scented boy
whom I coyly call
my muse.