Emma

15

The breeze fluting bends in the trees,
the water lilies -- wept unto
the delicate green film: soilless, still --
a sheet over depths of crumbling dirt interspersed
throughout a dewy dip in the valley --
the secluded wishing well of the pond.

We sat in simple design,
the croak of the frogs overlapping our jabber.
The muggy air sat atop our jackets,
creating drops of cool dew
as we hugged our knees
and haphazardly pulled at the grass beneath our fingertips.

Opaque, pastel emerald moss covered the rocks,
sitting in quiet delicacy.
Twisting vines had slithered
to the branches of Jukebox trees.

Bluebirds lacing tacitly,
straw nests against the backdrop of
light, hazy fog --
chirps splashing through the thick air.

We chattered -- like the birds -- as the day grew old,
we got up and ran to catch the setting sun,
we tilted our heads back and laughed without remorse,
we snacked on crackers and apples,
we still smiled in lull of conversation --
remembering tales from elder days.