Blossoms

There was a certain path,
behind the shed in her yard,
that led to an old orchard.

Once, on a warm summer day,
we walked together,
passed the faded tresspass signs,
to the tree with the white blossoms.

We lay together,
as the wind swept over us,
and the warm summer whispers kissed my ears.

The scent of ripe fruit overwhelming,
a single sensation resonating,
growing until everything melted together.

The grass has now grown long,
the blossoms blown in the wind,
but the sweet scent lingers in my memory.

© 2005 Steve Johnston