What we do

We take  that right turn down the puddled  overgrown road, one car wide with hanging branches we have to duck that even when we do scrape along the roof like a past that never fades to pull into the barbeque shack that looks like it fell down yesterday to have the  ribs drip off the bone as you wrap your tongue around the juice slipping down your chin to your finger which you give to me to lick.

We cut to the hayfield edge when the vines emerge and pull fat, dimpled blackberries off the prickled stalks, fingers stained and bloody, tasting  all the same, stains at your hips as you remember a day you came home as a kid with the white dress purple blotted with a pocket filled with crushed berries that you stuffed into your mouth because they wouldn’t make it to the muffin dough.

Marched, hands held high with a million others, sang, yelled, cursed, demanded freedom and  love; danced to the edge and beyond, stepped through the fog of hate, pushed past darkness to light to declare as one this what we do. Celebrate all the differences.

Sat on a ledge facing fading sunlight to see your face blush with all the youth and years between, to see the lines at your eyes are the knowledge of time that deepens the smile that  slides across your face; filled to know that age has made you more beautiful.

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