Hair.

When you weave your hand through

Strands It remembers,

your name enough until

 you’ve passed A dirty water pond with pencil

 drawings of bee hives Imprinted

upon it’s hard-shell raincoat

Like childhood paintings drawn in tangerine afternoons

A professional 10 meter track hurdler

It meters along

With vigor laziness.

Ribbons fold butterflies into his stomach

For him,

The grass doesn’t have time to reminiscence

A trail comic-book triplet lines posts itself after each print

The persistence from the grass is strong.

It is trampled

Prints in mud Tire tracks

first rain like leftovers of ink letters.

But in the long

run

After the sun has gone

down

The little shell filled with sunshine

And grit

“Runs”

Past the final chapter

As First

?