lazy summer days of green,
with the scent of soft flowers
in dark hair & stones in tired
palms, always failing to skip
and yet still rippling, shifting,
breaking the surface of
the still glass blue before
our dancing toes;
and maybe that's all it's
supposed to be, really–
hearts wide open and
vivid in the simplicity
of blooming hearts,
a lifetime of memories
nipping at heels pressed
far into the dirt, & yet
we still run wild alongside
twisted branches that
sway to the music carried
upon wind and waves–
granting our permission
as it dares us to relish in
possibility, letting the
present hit us full on
as a true home is found
among other people