He wakes to the trumpet of threadhorn bees,
In a bed knit tight ’neath licorice trees.
His alarm? A puffball sheep in a vest,
Who sings, “It’s Monday! Get up and be blessed!”
The streets are stitched, the sun is looped,
His cereal bowl? Soft yarn, well-scooped.
He buttons his shirt (made of marshmallow lace),
While socks with googly eyes race his face.
The buildings bounce like spongecake towers,
And buses bloom with felted flowers.
He’s late for work but smiles wide—
When clouds are plush, there’s less to hide.
For though the day means tasks and plans,
The world still dances in his hands.
Where threads replace the cold cement,
And deadlines feel like warm content.
Made with love and wools
