We creased the new season with our voices.
We rolled on the grass: it was clean as simplicity,
Far from 'shoulds' and 'woulds'.
I rarely wept,
But when we had to leave
I shook the nature that clung to my clothes
With tears in my hands.

Background: rare contacts with nature. One spring a sister take my mother to a park in the outskirts of the city. My mother speaks.