Lying out in the field where there'd be wild strawberries
only the leaves
that March afternoon,
the sun a glow we
hardly saw the months
of snow. We lay on
our backs. No, I told
my mother later,
the ground was dry,
birds all around,
dandelions we opened
already the palest
color of sun. My green
parka on the lush
green hill, our eyes
closed, smelling
the smell of things
growing: hair, summer
and though by midafternoon
we'd shiver in the shade,
our skin stayed pink,
sun-kissed this early.
(c) Copyright 2001. The Christian Science Publishing Society
