Utopia

The spiders spin silver silk nets,
to collect the dawn's tears of joy.
And I walk along emerald grasses and sunbeams.

My fingers trail through oceans of dew,
collected in the leaves' cupped hands.
And my toes explore overgrown forests.

The sun pries apart the leafy canopy
with eager fingers,
peering down on us inquisitively,

I smile up at it blissfully,
"The Sun's come to say good morning, my darling." I whisper,
and my hand caresses my bare stomach.

A hidden orchestra of colourful birds
sing us a song,
muffled by the audience of leaves.

It's almost lullaby-esque,
the sun warming my skin,
the music drifting between the trees,
and I lower us to the ground.

Mossy fingers reach up to welcome us,
a bed from the Earth cushioning my body.
The dew cools my sun-kissed cheeks,
and worn toes,
as I let my eyes flutter closed.

The sun beats down on them, still,
painting bright masterpieces on my eyelids,
and my hands cup themselves around my belly once more,

"The Sun shines for you,
the birds sing for you,
the trees sway for you.
And I, like them, would do anything for you, my darling."
My words to you are as quiet as the sweeping breeze,
that begs to play with my hair.

Your response is no more
than a few subtle movements beneath my hands,
but I know you've heard me.

My heart swells,
and the Sun watches on contentedly,
as I coo your name to the birds
in our utopian haven beneath the trees.