My Shadow

When my shadow shows high noon, much in and out the door it runs to miss the midday heat, in siesta deep. My shadow turns a simple laugh, into the fondest smile and some times runs into the sky, with two feet it hides. In the early morning, with the dew upon the lilies, the grass wet lays, my shadow fast asleep inside nights bed the moon. Unsealed the window opens wide, the running water scented from springs, brings, some children out about to clip the thorn. Now that age has lent me lettered grace, I bend and grow in folly even more, the book of passion, cheeks enslaved once inked a knave, others do the pumping, when water from the well, one needs to drink.