We always were considered to be “the Children of the Field of Large Onions” as is our Nature, and a title which we wear with great pride, even as our Reality bends and, especially, that infamous night when we went up Old Henry’s Hill in the wind, the tall pines whispering and bending, and up and up and up the hill on that scraggly beaten path as I held the bottle of hooch (as I would later hold a swaddled baby), and we were drunk but didn’t care and trotted as only the young do up and up and up that beaten dirt path, arriving to that place where one treads lightly like a summer breeze, least you wake the Old Ghosts of the mine, and, in the dusky twilight we finally arrived at abandoned mine’s gaping entrance, and you surprised me with a kiss unexpected, to which I knew no response, your tongue beckoning mine but no matter, as the air is cold, but your body warm, your hand venturing where your hand shouldn’t be venturing, not in the cold of the evening, and you smile as I react to your touch…
And the stars careen overhead in a liquid evening sky.
mattlaneydotcom 