Cow parsley bank .jpg

Souvenir 
A poem by Merril D. Smith

I dreamt the sky a promise of bird-blue,

the wind a light-fingered caress, the licorice taste of spring

all around us, cow parsley in a honeyed glow—

 

I laughed at how they white petal winked.

Could you? Would you?  You asked,

your questions loomed high and distant as the ancient cathedral,

 

whose bells tolled, it is time, come.

I heard the echo as I woke alone,

the scent of crushed cow parsley on my pillow.

Merril D. Smith writes from southern New Jersey, where she is inspired by walks along the Delaware River. Twitter: @merril_mds  Instagram: mdsmithnj   merrildsmith.com