I remember laying
in the grass with you,
silently watching
the clouds.
We were still young,
innocent enough
to see the playful
shapes hidden
within them.
Our blanket was not
the grass green
from my childhood
color box,
it was not lush
and soft.
The sparse,
dry blades
sharply jutted up
between tiny,
wilting weeds.
My skin ached
where it touched
the prickly surface
of the earth,
but I did
not complain
because I was
with you.
When you
beckoned
for me to
snuggle in
close and rest
my head on your
sleeveless arm,
safe from the
discomfort below,
I knew that you
loved me then.

Crystal R. Cook