Summer's jar overflows. A collection of out too late, sun all day, yard a jungle. The house has shrunk beneath a wilderness of green making us feel the smallest of small. We live with dirt in our fingernails, clover in our lungs. With every swing someone's shedding a layer, and leaving a piece of them behind. Teeth, skin, age. Baby faces turning, morphing, molting. Revealing the adult just a little bit more. Relics of the outside come with us to bed - grass and sand pooling like treasures in our sheets. We hoard blooms and sticks and shells and sunshine. Making piles on the front porch. And keep green beans in our pockets. The light closes late. We sing lullabies like night birds and crickets. Eyes barely having a chance to flutter. Limbs limp, sheets strewn, bodies stretched longer than the day before.

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