Poem

We are made of poems
Sweet lines
On lazy summer afternoons
Time passes in a haze
We are both here and not
Skipping
Tripping
Counting down the minutes
All will be lost
But there's so much we have yet to find
We crunch syllables on our tongue
Savour every pinch
Inch down the page
Filling the white
With sure black marks
She claps her hands
This is where we belong
We are made of poems
Sweet lines
On lazy summer afternoons.