I remember when I would lay on the scorching ground,
small stones leaving their mark against my dirty grubby skin.
marching across my toes in a blazing glory,
as I laid on the ground, imagining another story.
I recall the sky was a deep, deep blue. So deep it looked
angry and alone forcing all of its emotions into the
burning fire ball. I would lay there, block out my world,
just me alone with the wild dandelions, I was that girl.
I would often walk barefoot across the black burning tar,
the heat penetrating my soles, tingling I would hop from
one foot to another. At night I would sit and pick out
little stones and splinters of glass no doubt.
I kept jars full of wishes and boxes full of snails
I let ants walk across my skin and lady birds
crawl over my fingers. I made them homes in the dirt
and when they died I cried true tears of hurt
for a second, a fleeting moment then I spun around
and hopped some more beneath that deep and angry sky.
The summer came, the summer went,
and this is how my days were spent.