Orange

Forcibly neat pen strokes paint the page. His handwriting is too formal, in the exactness of the style he had been taught. He takes a long time to write the brief poem, mistakes discarded until he has every letter formed to his satisfaction. The peach, orange and pink blush of dawn sprawls upon the page as the black ink dries.
Fitting.


"Smile in the sunrise

Dance with our firelit colors

Burning like secrets"

There was this little hobbit lass
She ever had a tricksy time
For all she really wanted done
Was just to write a little rhyme
But trouble came to call on her
When thinking of some special words
She tried and tried and tried again
But nothing ever rhymed with ... orange!