Sunday Afternoon (With Work To Be Done)

My heels barely touch the ground
I point them down to scrape the asphalt
As I glide down towards the lake.
We see the light glowing
From the field off to the side.
We hop down as to begin
Picking dandelions
That seep into our beings
Coloring us our fingers
With golden prints
We move on shortly
Aware of how little we picked
Only when we see the yellow patch still shines
With the same bright alluring whimsy
As when we stopped.

At that first stop we crashed into one another
We said we did it on purpose
To remember We're Mortal.
And laughs were had.

And the next batch is just as affable
Inviting us to pick and soon
Fingers yellow Arms red
Knees green we move on again
With strained backs but
Feeling its wonderful.