If I tell you, there is a field, and within that field you are a child again, and your head only filled with worries of staining your yellow frock, and that you match the hearts of daffodils and there are butterflies that slip through your fingers. There is a boy and he is worryless and has a head full of thick hair, the younger man you will one day love. And you sprawl in the tickling grass together and you teach him how to shoot pods and whistle with a leaf and blow spit bubbles and you are happy, healthy, free of care and rough of knees.





Take me there.