Reservation
There should be lots of us, dressed to
our finest for the day. A tree would be best, but sometimes the Earth
itself will suffice, after all, it ends up on us just as we sit upon
it. The dry heat gives us the excuse, to forget our shirts, to lay on
the ground, to fall into puddles. A plan is never needed, rarely
wanted. Rather its the ding of a bell that signifies the start time,
the setting sun let's us know its almost time, and the calls of our
mother's means its over time. While laying in bed, after washing off
the Earth, the fantasies still linger, prepping us for the next day,
ready to ruin our finest dress.
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