Tonight at the window by the young Sassafras tree

I stand listening to the rain.

One afternoon at that window, by the little Sassafras tree

You said you loved the smell of those;

-and though my hands near cried at their absense from your hips-

I stepped away and brought a branch inside for you.

Now these fingertips of memory

call up the scented wetness of your passion,

as we kissed, and shared, that crushed green velvet taste, and citrus smell-passed mouth to mouth;

--you leaning back against my chest.

My fingers brushing soft dark lips

A thousands springs from now...