Memories of making love
under bridges in the fall,
our bed of golden leaves,
continuing to blow over us
on the afternoon autumn breeze.

Cinnamon, clove and spice,
was the taste of you,
all morning baking pumpkin pies,
I begged you for a walk.

Dirt road dust,
the sound of the creek,
the splashing sounds as we threw rocks.

I kissed you neck and lips,
as if tasting the divine.

You grabbed my hand and lead me under the bridge.