The mowers have left an uncut patch
where the riders park their bikes in the rack.

The sun is warm when we walk outside
and you take my hand.
Some say your hands
are large for a girl
but they fit just right in mine.
And when we hold hands
you trace your fingers along mine
and up my arm.
When we hold hands, your hands seldom stay still.
They flutter in mine like a restless bird,
they are delicate
and touch me the lightest touch
and the sunshine is not what warms my heart.