smelling pretty

I want to smell
pretty
again, buttercup
yellow of crushed grass wild
black-eyed
susan laying her
face up
on the sun ignoring
the locust, the corn
stalks would
spread their leafiness
desperate to bleed our
youth, but we were
unrooted things, running
wild cucumbers snapped
crisp thick wet
in our fingers, our
hands gloved
to our elbows
earth, we called
dares to the black
crow already bored, we
pebbled the old
barn, aiming just beyond
our own reach, just beyond
the possibility, we ran
until we
thought we had lost
our shadows

children with noses
stuffed
with life

psgates