innocence in a plum

the days are still dipped
with lemons like how it should be,
but the air is filled with graying dandelions
(they used to be white and precious)
and strawberry sunsets are burning,
in a way that make seagulls shriek

we are b-l-o-w-ing fragile dreams
over hilltops and over hilltops
i see us, different,
in another world.

maybe plums have always been
this crimson against the snow.

(i guess we were just filled
with growing up.)