please don't put your face into your hands, we could be friends

When I was younger, bare feet in the grass was my nightmare. Twigs, little rocks, red ants, there was death in the moss. Or, at the very least, there might be tiny pain.

It surprised me to realize the other day that some of my favourite moments this summer have been quietly reading in the park, spread out across the grass (except for the time I accidentally lay in a patch of honeysuckle. I'm sorry, little bees. That land is yours). There are small grass slicks across the shoulders of my tees, proud badges of early mornings and silent words. The occasional amused giggle or induced blush leads me to roll over, my hair mixing with nature and keeping it like a secret until it's rinsed out and replaced with the scent of peony and vanilla, clementine and cassis, and my feet have returned home. To the safety of tile and plush carpet, and now this is the scorned sensation.