the earth.

The warmth of your hand in mine

Makes me feel like the Earth.

Streaks of ethereal heat rays reach down

Like fingertips

                                                                        (your fingertips)

Brushing against my palm

                                                                                    (brush against my palm)

Wet blades of grass bend

under the weight of the wind,

under the weight of our feet,

pushing up and pushing b a c k.

We are outside of the world here.

Arching,

aching,

archiving

I am our archivist:

Cataloguing the whispers against the breeze here

Filing the stubborn grass stained jeans, stained with memories, there

Organizing the warmth of your hand in mine right

                                                                                                                                    here.

No---

                                                            here.

Under the sun rays

On top of the wet grass

This is a dream I dreamt a long while ago:

The warmth of your hand in mine

Makes me feel like the Earth,

Encompassed, blanketed, and protected

Like the grass on top of the soil

Like the dew on the grass

And the rays that sweeps across it all.