In June, we are inside out,
mistaken for blooming.
We steal apple blossoms,
pluck them from low branches
like burs from horsetails
and braid them through our laces
as we do between the trees.
We snap stems into hairclips
and paint our eyelids orange with pollen,
our ankles gray from parched dust that floats
on the orchard floor. At dusk,
we hide where the woods meet the garden
in the mouth of a trail your sister carved,
and watch farmhands raise dirt
with heavy boots and tools, powdered tan.
We taste when they spray the trees.
It dries our tongues
and sends us home for water,
but we will ripen in drought.
Lily Trotta is an NYU graduate raised in Connecticut, but give her a break, okay? When not writing, she makes cookie dough, overshares with people, and tries to just hold it together in public. Her poems can be found in Peach Mag, and her heart can be found on Twitter @lilytrotta.