the table waits for
our laughter and crumbs
laughing in the sun
a Saturday landscape
the playful breeze
and laughing leaves
the tiny jaws of snapdragons
open with a gentle squeeze
releasing their laughter
the laughter of the running brook
breaks the silence of snow
At the edge of the apple grove the spring comes above ground
and wanders across the meadow laughing in delight at the change of season.
A slide of green velvet moss,
a plush pile carpet of leaves,
water carbonated with laughter –
this is the spot where the fairies play.
The laughter and song of the brook
are part of the mountain’s music.
This is the surface of sound.
You no longer tell time by new rings.
Now as a beam, you measure time
by the nights and days of shelter you provide,
absorbing laughter and tears into your fibers and history.
This is the color of laughter.