A sweet breeze of honeysuckle crosses the
field, lifting us out of our faint july
slumber. “Can we stay here all day?” she asks,
Not wanting to leave, or be pulled asunder.
“I have got nothing to do,” I reply
and stare off, up at the blue sky friday.
How we got to this place? I know not why.
But in her arms is where I want to stay.
The setting sun falls and we grow colder;
So we pack up the day, move somewhere new.
We wonder loud, How will we grow older?
The car starts and we find something to do.
Every Friday we go to the blanket.
Thirty years later, I hope we make it.