This is the lake
and the grassy bank
where Paula and I sat together,
mesmerized by water
and its connection to
our touching heads.
Here is where
willows dipped
their outer branches
to sip
and mallards cruised
the rippling surface.
Here occurred kisses
I remember
as clear as if
they’d been photographed
and I was, at this very moment,
pressing that snapshot
against my lids.
And hugs,
not just arm around waist
but brown hair
swapping her shoulders
for mine.
Long ago they may be
but I still feel the times.
And, though superseded
by truer loves,
the puppyish kind
surprisingly survives
in me.
I came of age here.
But just not the age
I would become.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Stand, Santa Fe Literary Review, and Lost Pilots. Latest books, Between Two Fires, Covert and Memory Outside The Head are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in the Seventh Quarry, La Presa and California Quarterly.