I stumbled over the words left behind
the bushes near the tired pond where
fishing was plentiful years ago and
all the leaves were green instead of
shades of reds, yellows, and browns,
where fantasies were well rehearsed,
dreams were buxom and bold and
erotica had no internal limits nor
pauses for external stimulation,
where ideologies were fluid and
fears were non-existent and hope
was more than just a Sunday lesson,
where gentle was the day when love
did not pass by frequently and all
moments were concise and precise
and nothing was overlooked when
the right word needed to be found.
23Mar20
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