honeysuckle lunch

we scamper onto the soccer field,

giggling, clandestine, senseless

lucy calls “go” and we start to spin…

long hair floods our faces;

pleated skirts swing in circles around our waists.

from afar they match the color of the sky

but up close

the interlocking threads are ocean green.

sun-drunk and sky-quenched

we collapse in syncopated rhythm

legs and arms splayed on the grass

fingers grasping for weeds to pluck.

we lay on the ground motionless

the world orbits us,

powered by our desperate breath