If some wispy evening you find yourself
among the strand of oak and knotty pine
that secrets the creek along the greenway,
should you slow your steps toward home
and stop atop the arched, wooden walking bridge
to gaze downstream to where the world began,
look for the last crimson petals of daylight
falling on the bridge's weathered, craggy railing.
There, carved with a pen knife, is your Valentine.
Run your finger across the engraved, measured notes
of the courtship song of the world's first nightingales
and you'll muse on mornings of nutmeg and cinnamon.
Trace the heart clef etched beside the courtly measures
and you'll find yourself face to face with a man.
Handsome or not - his smile will stop the world.
He'll silence the chorus of spring peepers in the creek bed
and conduct a passing nighthawk as she rests her wings
in their rythmic beat and glides into
the dusk and before your heart beats twice, he'll taste
your lips with his. Turn and make your steps
toward home and return him to the nightingales,
or take his hand in yours down the winding steps that lead
to the darkling space beneath the bridge where he has gathered
the waters of the creek into a deep, shimmering, mysterious pool.
Dedicated to Elizabeth
Copyright © 2004-2007 by the authors
