Return

Walking through the tall grass, our legs push against the muscle of the 
meadow. The weeds wild with wetness, burs sticking to our jeans like 
fat ticks. All is new in the blue-green morning. And aromatic as earth 
itself. Scent of seeds. Puff of pollen. We, like the bees, sense the field is 
fringed with flavor. Topped with tassels we chew on. Coffeeweed roasts 
in the summer sun. Brown-eyed Susans stare at us like 
suspicious parents. We laugh. We shout just to hear our voices bounce 
like balls off the Poconos’walls. Let each return like a favor. Like a 
promise, long forgotten, finally fulfilled. Like the hills we roll down. 
Till the grass, towering over us at the bottom, catches us. Wraps us in its 
grasp.