Eyes green, flecked with orange, reflect the cornfields we once walked. Hand in hand, on a September evening, we walked for miles. We stopped beneath a lonely tree, the only witness of our forbidden kiss.
Her skin and hair, the forest’s fresh fragrance,
& the stateliness of the oak, her rustic beauty.
Her weather-lined face was beautiful beyond words.
She was every season: Autumn’s moon, Winter’s snuggle, Spring’s dance, Summer’s sexy siestas.
A Cherokee maiden, we met between the White River forks by the Brown County forest. We took off our shoes, but I was a tenderfoot. She often went barefoot, so we giggled together about her “Fred Flintstone feet,” while frolicking in the golden fall leaves, lip-locked.
Her dream was to have her own garden with one who would honor and share the fruit of her flowering heart.
Did you ever find your flower bed? I hoped, one day, to be your co-gardener,
but life happened
and then death.
There’s a tree atop Squaw Rock Hill. I climb to see the inscription on it