Our Love
I want our love to be remembered by the golden pasture where the milk cows would graze and we would sit against the wide, old oak tree with fresh green leaves larger than the heart you drew with our names carved delicately in the thick bark. Where I would smile, making necklaces out of the wild wood flowers for the first born calves, and you would convert my poems into the sweetest melodies for me on your grandpa's banjo.
I want our love to be remembered by the nights you would sneak out to meet me under the moonlit maples by the edge of the pond where the ducks were nesting in spring. When we would walk endlessly, regardless of our most needed hours of sleep. And when we stayed up late enough so we could watch the beginning of the sunrise on top of the highest mountain dividing our houses. But soon, it was over, and our slow goodbyes made the cuckoo's cry the most depressing sound we would ever hear.
I want our love to be remembered by the church bells in the valley below where you, the pastor's son, would wait for me on the second step of that gorgeous building in the small town of Myra which I was named after. And no matter what, you always complimented my dress how ever unfitted or unflattering it was...your hand-sewn tie was always crooked, but i never fixed it because i liked it that way best. After service, while the crowd went out to eat, you would always sneak me out in your baby blue ford truck to get ice cream at the local dairy bar. Afterward, we would chase the geese under the poplar trees that were gathering to fly southward for the winter. And you would tease me about how I was the only beautiful swan out of all the ignorant birds in the abandoned farm field.
I want our love to be remembered by the autumn breeze creeping through the crevices of the neighbor's barn where we would lay side by side, hands clasped so tight in the fresh alfalfa harvested from the season before. There, in the small hayloft where we were more than hidden, you would spill all of your suppressed feelings into the open, and it would often leave me speechless; in a state of mixed emotions. All i could do was curl up closer to you while the long awaited happiness seeped into my veins and the tears came in a snail race down to my blushing cheeks only to soak the shoulder of your handsome, long-sleeved plaid shirt.
And most of all, I want our love to be remembered by the soft grass and patches of rockcap moss illuminated by the bright sun on that fine Sunday evening in the middle of summer beneath the weeping willow tree with limbs that covered the ground creating a canopy inside where you gave me your clothes, my chicory perfume was in your nose, and our almost breathless words would never be forgotten by the gossiping ferns. We were lovers at last; the barn owl didn't even have to ask. I was your elegant swan and you were my preaching shepard boy.
- myra anne
 cotton candi owl · Sat Nov 06, 2010 @ 03:59pm · 0 Comments |
