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