Memories prickle your lazy morning thoughts
as pine needles remind bare feet
that mountain trees have lost as well.
Here,
you run hands through meadow grass
to rummage through a treasure chest of texture;
to root yourself into the Earth,
and not let go of your soil.

But when we do this,
rain pours,
and we soon take hold,
until the seed in our minds sprout like dandelions,
and those memories float away on cotton sails,
off the mountain,
elated to grow somewhere else,
to be picked by someone else,
in a different time;
hands softened by youth
and the innocence required
to see not weeds,
but flowers.