In Frame

I only know it when I see it.
When the oranges all blend together.
When they become a ball of red, in space.
In infinite space.
Why is space infinite?
Why do we even look at the finite things?
Why are the things that are here the things that always seem more important
than the things that go on forever, but aren't there?
No color is lower than any other.
No lights can be confined, because they don't want to be.
There's no eye that can truly see, because we just see what we're there for.
What if we only saw the words that we cared for?
Would we see ourselves in a perfect world?
Would we see ourselves in a place where plums grow all year long
and the only thing that can dampen is water itself?
There's only the grass and the weeds and the yellow of the flowers
in those grasses, and weeds, and in more flowers.
The sun is a dog.
The sky always laughs.
The clouds are quiet comforters, for those who are slightly agoraphobic,
just barely.
Doing the splits was a childhood thing to want,
but I keep seeing myself going back to it.
Blue jeans and bare feet,
always with the sun.
Always with the sun, and the rain.
We smile when we see flowers
but I don't know why.
They're just things that change.
Not infinite either.
Always hiding, then smiling for a moment before getting hidden again.
But they're beautiful to many
either because they change,
or they change us.
Maybe thinking about the flowers gives us reasons
to think about the other things,
like knees and noses, and the ocean, and depth.
Kissing the trees.
Always kissing the trees.
Smile.
Always the cotton blows,
and gets caught in our hair.
Flowers bloom like onions,
paint splatters,
dresses,
galaxies,
hair framing a face,
book pages,
sedimentary metamorphic igneous rock.
Vampires bite to please themselves,
and we are silly creatures.
We are the silly ones who love the water even though it can kill us.
It's silly to think of such things,
but it's those silly things that make us smile.
Always smile.