Foutain of Youth by Brianna Peck

Tonight I worshiped the moon so hard I got a little grass in my mouth.

Hips shifted back, palms up, face pressed in the dirt.

Tipsy on the way the moon shines down my spine.

Around the camp water - the pond in the center of the field where my friend and I gather to sing,

And watch the water shoot into the sky and float back down to the surface in ringlets.

This pond, where the bullfrog roars,

And the watermelon grow,

And the flee fla flows.

If this is the fountain of youth - it didn’t take light years to reach it.

6:45 the next AM:

I skip down the hill through the field and sneak up on my friend while she’s suspended in thought,

Staring down the majesty of the morning.

I almost wonder if it’s safe to approach.

But when she notices me,

I’m blinded by the brilliance of her smile.

“My friend is here! My friend is awake!”

She pulls me into her arms and we dance and jump around until we fall backwards in the duckweed.

We only saw each other just last night,

But she and I have our ears up against the heartbeat of sunrise.

The blessing sunrise implies and it inspires a full body gratitude that feels like a shot of espresso.

We trail through the field, angling our heads up to the sky and let the sun lick at our face.

The grass, wet still from the morning dew. Blades and dirt stick to our bare feet. 

She washes her feet in the sink of the half-bath, and then she washes mine.

There’s a little girl with us - actually two of them.

They’re the ghosts of the little girls we used to be,

And they’re kneeling before the pond catching tadpoles in their palms.

And when they snare one, finally and hold it up under the light

It looks as if we’ve caught them mid-prayer.