Those Skimming Stones.

Honeyed heart, recall all those moon high nights, the starry vista as we lay on the damp aromad grass of our youngness while
Bob Dylan and Leonard Cohen accompanied our fantasies.

I never fulfilled your Mr Darcy dreams tho I did pick flowers for you.
I suspect You had greater thoughts
than daisies and buttercups,
but our initials will still be carved in that old Beech tree trunk.
Those dandelion spores we blew to forever, all landed somewhere.

I showed you how champion I was at skimming stones, pretending to teach you so I could touch you and smell your hair.
Before kissing sweetly became natural or symbolic we dreamed our life,
you, looking for luck among the clover.

I, premature and unwise broke my duck and your bra clasp.
You forgave me with giggles that floated above us and settled on the boughs of our Beech tree.
And how much breeze did it take to unsettle your laughter?
Then, it would have taken a hurricane.

Do you feel them today? those breaths of Summer air that would hardly mist the glass of a window pane,

yet held us as we searched in one another’s depths;

did we have any depths? Any pains?

Do you ever; did you ever yearn?
Did you stuff your backpack of life with those greatest of expectations?

Did you learn anything?

Those skimming stones;
the ones that reached the other side.
I looked for them; they remain unfound, but they are still ours, over there…
On the other side, with all the pebbles and bricks that never got hurled.
They flitted in two or three great, whizzing whirls
holding inside them stories of lives, unstarted, blind and care-free.