Saving's Grace

A picket fence

Open to a green pasture.

We run—

chins raised to the sun,

arms wide and back.

Then, fall to our knees and breathe.

The day is rose-petal soft

and blurred.

You look to me to say a few careful words.

As I roll, skin tickled arm to arm by whisps of grass, nearly dry,

the very back of my head holds still,

nestled in a slight dip in the earth.

I look up at your silhouette, overtaken by the avalanche of light

tumbling from above.

I hear. I know. 

Then close my eyes and drift away.

Rainy days are saved for careful words.

Silence is perfection.

-Jayme