~ ~ ~
Beneath the deeply dipping blue spruce
nestling closely against the ground,
sharp and poignantly aromatic;
my purest innocence
faded into
the moss; the
cool retreat from sweltering
summer’s displeasure; sharpened with
peaks of curiosity, and stabbed
with needles of guilt,
without pretence.
~ ~ ~
Only eleven years
old, and chaste, the year
that we met; my wonderings and
wanderings echo still, deep in the canyons
of my memory.  Here lie these innocent waking
dawns, showing themselves in pale pure
light, and the fresh breath of sunrise,
with pleasure still, yet sorrow
in the penitence.
~ ~ ~
And thirty-eight years
after, we love each other still.
~ ~ ~
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 The spiritual wind that holds survivors aloft, plants the seeds from which bloom new hope ... R.J.G.