moss (poetry)

[godream]

shady sunday afternoon
lost among thoughts in a graveyard
leaning against memories
dates and dashes
a name and a
forgotten novel buried by my side
in the grass carefully cropped
dancing clouds over the sun
and it's darker like
the grass stains on the knees of my jeans
(when I plucked and gave flowers)
the poetry staining my fingers
(red ink seeping from blue lines)
and like the bruises of my recollections

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_{It's below freezing out, okay? I have to write summer poetry, even if it *is* angsty, done-before summer poetry. I think this one's somewhere approaching halfway decent, leaving aside for the moment the whole writing about things I don't understand bit. Feedback appreciated, as always, hint hint hint hint hint. And hey, for once in my life I'm starting to approach a resolution: non-school writing twice a week!}