Melissa Allen

In the stillness of red clay,
bases wait silently for spring.
With orange-stained kisses from past loves,
they hold the scent of fresh, mowed grass
and mockingbirds sounding their morning alarm.

My thoughts fade
just as the days of summer –
to tanned legs, sweat and runs batted in.
Your weathered hands
entwined with the honeysuckle breeze
both gently caress my warm skin
and fill night’s air with fragrant intoxication.

I wait too,
for swallows,
sweet honeysuckle
and you to return.