im damp with sunshine and am covered in grass stains. the wind braids my hair, into a tangled weave as i count the rings in a tree. --thirty seven, thirty eight-- you rest by the pond, reading alice in wonderland to me. the weeds write poetry and sing empty songs while the dragon flies play tag. our shoulders are collecting freckles and our fingers learn sign language. my lace socks have been acquainted with dirt and old things. but that's the way i like them. the souls of your shoes have worn through, and your toes sometimes stick out. -- seventy two, seventy three-- your brown eyes call the mountains and the humming birds. they call the wild things to play. foxs' head tilts crooked while their ears are slanted back. the rolling hills and the lean brown grass stops swaying to listen to alice's adventure. i've chipped away my green nail polish and bite at my fingers. the sun retires. but we have not. even the moon has stopped moving to listen to our memories fade. we count the consolations and star gaze far. we make up stories for the stars while they intently listen. in return, they tell us stories. the man in the moon smiles, and the fisher boy, who lives on the moon, fishes. we use the crickets as our melody, and write our secret songs. the fire flies chat and the frogs croak. pointing to the sky, i say something intriguing. you come up with a logical reply. --four hundred and forever.--
the thoughts of summer have their own kind of magic to them, i believe. i think. i am a fool. and a bitter one.
sarah janelle.
