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.
Nov 27, 2012
Nov 27, 2012 at 10:55 PM UTC
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.
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