The Pine Grove

I will hold you there,
In the bitingly cold air
Of early March,
In a place
Where only the pine trees,
Like silent sentries,
Will see us.

I will grasp the folds
Of your old cotton shirt,
While whisking winds
Circle us,
Stirring pine needles
Around our feet
That touch as we kiss.

I will slip my hands
Beneath the waistband of
Your jeans, feeling
Warm skin, a respite
From the brisk and bitter,
Wet and waking
Morning in the pine grove.

I Have Only Myself to Blame

In the midst of orange groves
She walked for hours
To find the meeting place
From many years before.

Softly undulating landscape,
Air ripe with steam and
Perfume, fresh grasses,
She followed memory there.

There, in that open place
Between the endless rows
Of fruit trees, she had met
Someone with dappled eyes.

She could recall every detail
Of his face, the freckles,
Sandy cropped hair, the
Tiny bump on top of his ear.

His strong grasp on her hand,
Her hips, the sides of her face,
All were burned in her memory
Like hot sun on orange skin.

In that open place amid
Orange groves, she stood
For a moment, breathing in
Pungent air and memories.

She had pulled her hand
Away, despite his firm grasp,
Out of fear perhaps, or
Pride, or petulance.

She wanted to run wild
Through orange groves,
Seeking undiscovered paths
And mysterious colors.

Letting the man with the
Dappled eyes and freckled skin
Fade into the view behind,
She had run wild.

Many years later now, she
Would return to this place,
And the place in her heart,
Where he had once been.

And now, with the scent of
Orange groves filling her body,
She realized, fully and clearly,
"I have only myself to blame."

Passion and Flowers

Red dirt road
Heavily laden branches
Form a canopy

Drips of light
Wind through haze,
Leaves and mist

Bare feet feel the ground
Press into soft mud
By the creek bank

There, peeking out
Of winding, dark vines,
Are the passionflowers

Spry little dancers
Ringed in color
Play with the light

They symbolize love,
But another passion,
One of suffering

On the red dirt road
Under groaning trees
Gather them

Fill your arms
Of passion and flowers
Let them spill over


Let them litter
The soft ground and
Dappled grasses

I Will

I will curse the gulf that ever widens.
I will crave the scent that no longer lingers.
I will mourn the touch that no longer penetrates.
I will listen in vain for the notes of a song no longer sung.

I will scan the horizon,
And every inch of the soil,
For the faded colors,
The deteriorating imprint of footsteps,
The barest trace,
The tiniest sign.

I will.