Field Days
Do you remember lying in the soft, cool clover,
fingers combing leaves for luck?
(What did we need luck for anyway?)
Tiny flower bouquets, the scent of spring grass
and wild onions in the air.
Cross-legged, sweat beading behind our knees.
Bright green spaces, as vivid as field days.
Perched lightly on earth, the sweet, young friends
as queens, or fairies, or elves, with daisy chain crowns adorning our brows
and flowers tucked behind our ears.
Girl hearts, beating innocently without performance.
I remember. Searching for that feeling.
Fingers combing through worries now,
Desperate for a four-leaf clover
As if luck could solve it all.