Out to the Field of Clovers

We were ten, holding hands, swinging our arms back and forth between us, feeling the sunshine as we skipped down the dirt road. It was summer, the sun was setting, and we ran towards the fields of clover. The green petals bristled in the wind. We sat for a while, watching the sun turn shades of red and purple. We talked about the small things in life that made it fun, like nice teachers, playing ball, and swimming. The big bell on my mother's back porch rang with a furry. It was time to head back to the houses.

We were fifteen, holding hands, walking down the old dirt lane. It was summer, the sun was setting, and we leisurely went towards our spot in the clover. We sat for a while, our hands never leaving each other, not really watching the sun, but gazing deep into each others eyes. We talked about our love, our futures, and what we really wanted. The big bell on mama's back porch rang now, but softer than when we were children. As if beckoning us home, but letting us take our time.

We were eighteen now, holding hands, we walked down the dirt road to the edge of the clover, and stopped to take in this moment. His uniform pressed, my best dress on, our hearts were racing. Our last day, our last moment in the clovers. We walked out into the clover, and he kneeled. The happiest day in the clover, we sat together, nestled in each others arms. The big bell never rang on Mama's back porch that evening. She wanted us to take our time, because she knew.

I am twenty one now, I walk down the road to the clovers. I clutch my black satin pocket book, and his handkerchief in one hand, a tiny hand in the other. It is summer, and the sun is setting. Our little one toddles beside me, down the dirt road to our place, the place where our love grew. To the place where our son's love will grow. Out to the field of clovers. The bells of the church from the town ring now, they ring for him.

Out to the field of clovers.