To be a boy

The boys

run 

through the 

green 

sprinkled with

young 

white

ladies of 

the field

in blossom,

then

past her 

fence,

slowing,

hoping to 

catch her 

in a 

moment of 

sweet repose.

They know

that when 

the big

yellow

meets the

blue 

perfectly 

centered, 

she will 

likely be

there

drinking 

the pure

summer

through her

skin,

and sweating. 

They know

nothing

of her 

teenage

refinement

or taste.

In fact, 

she doesn’t

either. 

But when

yellow

comes to

mingle 

in the blue

it results

in these 

sideways

glances, 

and the 

slowing of

strides.

Pageantry

without

judges

or correctness

or consequence.

Just a

wonder

and a

dream of

simpler

result.  

Just some 

freckle faced 

boy with

nothing on 

his side

but the

summer

sun itself

 

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