I see the white hot glare of sunshine through my eyelashes,
peering through the thick branches of the tree
looming over the neat dark green grass and me.
I hear the gleeful whistling
of the miniscule birds
soaring over the calming hum of the musky white golf cart.
I smell the springs scents
of the happily bright dandelions and mud,
plastered by our footprints
on the dull shining rows of the metal bleachers.
I taste the damp air
on this mild Spring morning
that reminds me of how it felt
when my lungs burned
with the salty tang of the ocean water.
I touch the cold, silver bleachers
chilling my legs through my black leggings,
giving me a surprisingly refreshing joyful feeling.
I feel my soft purple jacket,
restraining my arms from the cool breeze
that hits my pale face and enters my ears,
singing them a sharp, cunning lullaby that only makes me more awake.
I wonder if these nine rows of bleachers
will ever be demolished,
just another pile of dust on the flat slab of Earth.
Crushed.
Eliminated.
Just like a business with no customers, pointless.
I wish I could feel the soft grass beneath my legs
instead of the odd metal
of the cold bleachers taking the feeling out of me.
I hope the grass always stays this green
and the bleachers always stay this cold
because this Spring air is too good to last more than a day.
I know that someday the deep green grass will fade,
the smell of Spring will vanish
and these bleachers will get warm,
but the feeling will always stick.