I felt the dewy grass between outstretched fingers as I held my gaze skyward. The wet earth compressed beneath a head filled with what-ifs and why-nots.
I love to feel cool rain on bare skin. A promise that all things get washed away if left out long enough. Like the salty mingling under light showers. Or the sun-bleached color of a child’s toy.
Maybe the whisper of a prayer, said aloud but gone unheard?
What if we could be true as the sky-blue specks that poke through the leaves? Would we seek the cover of the trees still?
I wonder how those before us considered honesty. When they stood in the shade and said things syrupy sweet. When they satiated our appetites but left the meal spoiled.
Why not deny the comfort of the shade in the hope of facing a clear day? Why not accept the sweetness of the fruit as it comes?
Memories yellow with exposure, just as rain refreshes. So why not stop worrying about what-ifs and just be true?
True as the withering tree and the sky-blue specks turning dark.