I laugh, you laugh. Winter’s gray water-balloon bursts.
We’re bathed in spring.
-Charles Harper Webb

It’s an annual conference with an unusual boardroom.
I smile, leaving my Oxfords against a pale stone as sunlight
itches my nose instead of fluorescent rays. You smile, with wiggling

toes, strands of grass in-between, a carpet of soft moss and earth.
The sun is only as high as the trees, tendrils of light appearing
between branches, not blinds.

I smile and you smile as petals fall like employee morale.
The grand oak nearby casts a wide shadow, overworking
its leaves before letting them go.

A sea-breeze sky oversees us, as I smile and you smile: our scenery
like a desktop wallpaper. We welcome the shiver from a sudden
cool gust, unlike the chill of a supervisors’ presence.

The wind carries undertones of pine, impossible to simulate
in a spray can. I smile and you smile when we lie on overgrown grass,
heads resting on rotten logs, not cushioned seats.

The forest overwhelms us, making our heads restart while our
bodies perform their mandatory updates. Sideways glances and tension
dissolve out in the woods. I smile and you smile at fresh grass stains.

The daylight dwindles, and new glowings populate the sky, no
motion detectors required. Here, sky-scrapers don’t need to be built.
I smile and you smile, barefoot, climbing a forest giant.

We ruffle leafy branches and dwelling birds scatter with startled
chirps. Like a cleaning crew at closing, our arrival clears
the workaholics feathering their nests with one last twig.

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