in her summer dress

i see you roll
down the green hill
like a ball.
you are five
somewhere
inside your still
limber limbs
that know sixty
years. and the bumps
and bruises
you'll endure,
the burrs caught
in your hair,
the grass stains
on your dress
you'll pay no mind.
it's worth each dizzy
turn down
the summer slope
with so few
seasons left.