it was a scene of unbridled, undefiled, unflinching youth

we lay sprawled in starfish formation across the grass

that poked through the thin fibers of our clothes

tickled the tenderness of our flesh

as our small hands lay outstretched to an unknown god —

unknown to us

and us unknown to him.

the smell of earth and dirt seeped into our clouded heads

the smell of Genesis and Beginnings

and it made us think of the end —

of all things,

of us.

we spoke of nothing and everything

as the leaves rustled softly overhead

cocooning us in a blanket of nature's blank noise.

the dome above our heads

(God's watercolor painting)

peeled away layers of territorial night

revealing brushstroke sweeps of light periwinkle,

the pastel purity of promising morning.

though the sun hid bashfully from our eyes

we watched the colors bleed and fade

in our own private preview of the world beyond.

there we laid (sprawled) across the lightening grass

until the leaves no longer rustled

and our bodies grew numb

so we rose and lumbered home

with the painful knowledge that half of us would forget this

and the other half would tuck it into the basements of our memory

as a reminder of our peak —

the bloom of our youth.