When I was five or six, maybe four
I with my father to his freinds farm
We went to help with bringing in the hay
The small house with an open door
while rife with old country charm
drew me in on this sunny summers day

Memere inside standing by the table
was looking out at the hay field...
Pepere picking alfalfa and clover
In her hands was vase of marble
Cherished for the treasure it would yeild
Half filled it with water from the river

The door opened and in entered a breeze
presenting an intoxicating scent of flowers
coloured with purples and white
He presented the bouquet with a wheeze
from the pollen that would hang for hours
and glossy eyes on his face so alight

Their hands touched ever so tenderly
as he gave her the flowers of alfalfa and clover
No words needed said of love and devotion
their eyes did meet momentarily
with a "soupson" of admiration for each other
Unchanged since their first introduction

As a boy I did not understand what I witnessed
As an adult when I see or smell alfalfa and clover
I stop to embrace and be infused by their totem
I sense they are walking in a field of mist
where the flowers bloom today, tomorrow and forever
I know that on that day, I had lived in a poem