Mansong

Mansong wakes me,
Early morning,
Sweet and dewy,
Molasses pancakes saunter in my home-made oven.
Mansong inflates me like a porcelain steamship,
Breathing like a valley,
Thoughtful as a lake,
Sunny kitchen tile,
Reflects all Mansong.
The melodious gatherer who harvests life,
Deals in Mansongs, stands upright,
Leans on his harvest staff, adjusting his coonskin,
Kneading his stubble, muttering long forgotten
Mansongs to his old friend country sunset -
Back to his toil.
But the Mansong lingers,
Unfurling its sultry fingers,
Like a cup of honey smuggled into the shower,
When no one’s home,
To see what it’s like.
Altho I’ve never seen the Man,
When I look up at his tree,
I know that he is home,
And that his Mansong is for me.