Edges

The days' sunned,
long legs stretched
off the blanket and
into the blades of night.

You'd said something
that stabbed and stuck,
but I was quiet.

It was hot
and there were ducks
and fireflies and probably crickets and you,
you were still
there,
fine,
I just don't remember the words.

You kept looking into the woods.
Tired? Concerned? I could never tell.
You went off to the trees and I didn't follow
a word you said as you went.

You came back and, almost bashful,
asked me to help pick the burrs from your dress,
to check for ticks before it got too dark.

The grass was flattened and browning
by the time we pulled up the blanket
but the blades, like us,
would recover by morning,
sharp as ever.