Thursday, March 3, 2011

The One With And Picnics.

Dear Lover,

You remember the feeling of Spring?
Of Spring when you were a child?
That woodsy taste on the middle of your tongue.
From the last of orange popsicles.
Cold cement on your heels and toes.
As bare feet feel the first burn of sunlight.
The heavy whip of blankets snapping in the air.
Shaking off dust.
Spreading out on awaking lawns.
Flutter of cotton hemlines at shins.
The floral prints.
And the beginnings of freckles in place of foundation.


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