The One Where The Blooms Peek Out From The Hem of My Wide Pants.

Dear Lover,

I have a feeling.

That when I look at you.

When I first realize.

Well.

That I'll smell fresh milk.

And blackberry jam.

And knee-tall grain.

The kind that lines paths.

Bowing over as if in worship of the packed width of a trail.

Waving this way and that.

To catch dragged fingertips across its stems.

Sliding from knuckle to nail.

Love,

Me.