It is the color of the grass in the middle of summer
on that dirty patch between the airport fence and road
that we picnicked on, watching the planes.

It is the knees of children’s jeans
after a hard day of playing
It is the background of that great little league catch
the color of every plant your mother killed
It is thirsty, yellow-green-brown

Summer’s favorite color
childhood’s too
My favorite color
Because it’s life with you

It’s our adventures to dirty lots.
Where broken glass magnifies the somehow surviving weeds.
It’s shoe prints left on the house floor that I yell at you for
It’s the sound of grass whistles
It’s the little bugs you scare me with
It’s the hue you ought-to-have outgrown.

And it is the color of the grass in the middle of summer
On that dirty patch between the airport fence and road
that we picnicked on, watching the planes.
Where you kissed me the first time
and caught me by surprise.

But then I remembered you are thirsty, yellow-green-brown,
afraid of nothing.
Trod on by everything,
Experience somehow makes you more innocent,
it’s supposed to do the opposite, you know.
Of coarse you don’t.