Leaves of thirty-three autumns

have covered the forest floor

along the bend in Laurel Creek,

that secret place, where cold

mountain water laps against

round, polished stones

and bare feet. Loamy

Tennessee silt once sifted

between the toes here,

leaving high-water marks

on our ragged jeans.

We feasted at waters’ edge,

eating over ripe blackberries;

blooms of honeysuckle

gave more laughter than honey.

Our berry-stained fingers traced

the words in sand

shyness would not say aloud.

Sometimes, I visit the stream,

kick the leaves over my shoes,

listen for the heavy north wind

to convict the pride of tall poplars,

but I dare not venture to the bend,

fearing somehow, someway,

I might reshape the memory

of you.