A boy

(a young boy)

stands between

myself and the trees,

evergreens that stretch

on forever skywards.

Sunlight dapples

a face that laughs


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.