There is a patch of grass
we planted on a summer's day.
When the bare feet of us
tore it
down to the roots,
the green
faded.
Like my hand around you.
The dew.
The trimmed blades
the soft bush
covered from the shed of those that fall.
You ask,
Why won't it stay?
Now it is I
that plays.
I am 10 pounds lighter
without the weight of your touch.
Yet my leaves
crunch and
disintegrate
under the weight
I shed off.
WAIT
Isn't it that same summer's day?
The one?
Where we ran and played?
You shine like the sun.
But
by now
you have gone.
For
when the brown
arises from the underground
I blame it on the sun
that made it that way
I cannot play in grass that is not green.
My hands.
My feet.
Me me me
sinks
and I choose to stay
unseen.
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