i loved your fingers most
when they were stained.
with blues, and pinks, and white.

we had dressed up to dress down,
with mudpies and flowers.
you grew them,
tender touches and
little whispers that said,
"the sun would come out soon,
it will, hang on."

and we sprawled in the grass,
with itches and remnants.
we spent hours lounging
in hammocks and playing
in the neighborhood water.

we couldn't have had
enough if we had tried,
couldn't have danced
with the dandelions
until the day could wane.

(but we had been there,
at peace, with dirty hands.)

01/22/2004

Author's Note: we'll dance again, my lovely. the sun will not hold us asunder.

Posted on 01/22/2004
Copyright © 2024 Rachelle Howe