Some crisp morning -
miles from the workings in town that move the world's freight -
as you canter along the ring of tall Georgia pine
that guards a grassy glade you fancy as yours,
you'll stop as always beside a splash of musical creek
and loosen your white mare's tack before sitting -
your back firm against the trunk of a sheltering pine -
to watch tall, green grasses dance on the edges of the wind.
One crisp morning,
he'll come step by step across the glade, stooping haphazardly
to gather daisies and fashion an unfashionable bouquet
mussed and tangled with the wild grasses of friendship and love.
Your heart will quicken as he stills the nickering of your anxious
mare and banishes the ghost of a freight train whistle
rising from its haunt near town. In your bower,
across the threshold of Spring, look for your Valentine.
That crisp morning,
let your eyes climb along the vine climbing the needled skirt
of the sheltering pine and clip the first yellow blossom,
star-shaped and spiced with feisty fragrance.
Place it in your hair and resume your riding
or loosen the pocket of his tousled shirt and plant
the flower just above his heart as you gather up
the blowzy bouquet and take his hand in yours.
Dedicated to Andrea
Copyright © 2004-2007 by the authors
