We rise and fall together in a sea
of seedling rye and and dandelions, laughter
staining the silence and our old jeans
with streaks of verdant green,
even our skin becoming one with chlorophyl,
the gravel cutting a blood sacrifice to seal it.
The trees were talking then,
and we leaned on them to hear
through the sandpaper bark, the echoes
of the changing seasons and turning earth.
And we are back to frolicking again
tied inexplicably to the dirt,
falling out of orbit again,
like a meteor, or satellite.
No comments:
Post a Comment