When did I begin to fear the feel of long grass against my legs?
But we walk as the distant gunfire continues.
The air cools from approaching rain.
The four-leaf clover points every way, a sign that we should pause.
Through dragon-fly wings I can see things —
faded plastic, color lost to the sun.
tangled lengths of fishing
line and bobbles, discarded
lay about the grass and trees
Distracted by a lingering kiss I forget
the sounds of birds calling and cars passing
by outside of the tree line until
cold wind forces goosebumps from my skin
The path beckons us on but we turn back to flee the coming rain.
Image by S. Hermann & F. Richter from Pixabay
notthestateofmyhouse 