Suburban grass yields to many feet,
to the creeping expansion of subdivisions,
of pavement spread hot and thick from machines,
the houses and stores rising up over the few
remaining plains, the meadows, the disappearing
expanses of soft green blades.
But when we, you and I, walk
with our bare feet kissing the dry, hot earth,
the brittle grass in your yard,
the blades spring back up to face
the golden sun, rise green and
rejuvenated, freshened by our
naked flirting toes.
When we, you and I, lay to rest
for a moment on the soft grass
across the street, a cool green carpet
encroached by thruways and a primary school –
shuttered for the summer –
the kids and teachers somewhere else,
behind other windows,
under other roofs,
while we rustle together
on grass that's happy to support
young signs of life.
We’re electric, you and I, invisible
sparks raining onto the grass,
seeping into the soil
from wherever our bodies touch,
skin on skin, surging through
our bare flesh like our bare souls
strengthening as our earthly selves connect.
We roll together with energy more genuine
when we come together.
We never need a blanket;
our bodies are hot in the grass.
touch me as I touch you,
warm me as the earth cools,
the evening star dropping
and shedding light, sparklers
across the grassy earth,
stars bright like pinpricks
in the dark canvas, shining brighter
with every rhythmic connection
between us. The air swells
with our collective pulse,
the heat of your body on mine,
the power of our souls together,
leaving imprints on this
bare patch of grass between buildings.