clovers

by Elizabeth Parnell

Blades of grass are rising through the gaps around my hands,

And white blossoms are unsheathed from the green

Nest that I lay in now. Encompassed by singsong and

clovers.

But the blades underneath me feel sharper.

I can feel the leaves crumpled under my calves, bent out of proportion,

I’ve stunted their growth and I can’t

mend them back to their prim and slender selves.

Now, the breeze is turning

Crisp as frolicking fades,

And the blushed and cloudy clover blooms are at rest

Soon the clovers themselves may depart. I can see it already, them shriveling.

Thinking to myself how I want to cherish them longer, I pluck one away from the field.

I am still, clasping this brief joy.

Decomposing in my palm,

I have sliced its lifeline in the process.