My parents were hippies.

The flowers
On the side of the road you insisted we pick
Remind me
Of the colors in you dress
We camp
Sleep
Where we're not supposed to
And explore
Hidden valleys
Invisible mountains
Our van
Which broke down
Is miles away two states over
It's bright and colorful
But hopefully no one will notice it
In that candle shop parking lot
Our shoes
As worn as they are
Have seen many places
The mushrooms we had for breakfast
Remind me of fairies
Sitting in their plant houses
Eating their own small amounts
Of dirty mushroom
Your head band
With it's many mirrors
Twinkles in the sunlight
The heavy beads
Around my neck
Make me begin to sweat
And as we try to sell our jewelry
Made of seeds and made of bones
Of claws and of hide
We laugh
At how simply easy it is
To be
A hippie.