Past the Halflings’ Village

Far away,
Past the Halflings’ village,
An old man,
Dry apple-wrinkled,
Peels a pear with a weathered pen

Knife-like, his anger is not
To be caught in words
Or fixed in crayon.
Unlike deep purple/crimson/aqua passion,
His hurled sand and stone
Hit deaf madness,
Depend on the vagaries
Of road conditions.

Fakes find fault.
Reindeer prefer solid ground,
Especially if singing the springs green.

Dreamy midwives of sunshine tend
Creation’s metamorphosis,
Even during parkway commutes,
Making paper bag lunches taste
Like so many snowflakes.

When we seek and destroy,
To perform among acacias,
Ignoring red river gums plus eucalyptus’
Troubled streams,
Jeremy and Candace tend to run away.