Crocus in Spring

I stand barefoot in the center
of cow parsley and bride’s lace
skimming my cut-off jean shorts,
frayed at the edges and rolled up.
My hair hangs pin-straight,
long strands wind-wrap around my neck ,
press across my face and mouth
as I push through the weed-wild
field headed toward the shed
with the gray slanted roof.

I was tan, that summer, with skin honey-brown,
hair shining like new copper in the sun.
My breasts were perfect perky round globes,
like the kind you’d see in Calvin Klein ads,
the nipples poking through my unlined white bra
through my white tshirt.

I shield my eyes with my hand like a visor.
Still squinting, I see you leaning
against the shed, shirtless,
back flat against the weathered wood,
feet angled out, your hands shoved
deep in the pockets of your Levis.
You wait for me.

The only sounds I heard were the finch.
the creak of old shed planks as brittle
hay pierced the small of my back.
I could see a patch of sky, white and blue
from the hole in the roof
until you moved into the frame,
leaning over me,
your backlit blond hair like a halo.
I melt into your eyes, the color of the summer sky,
as you brush away the hair from my eyes,
that reminds you of river moss.
My fingers traced your biceps,
marbled smoothness.

In the stillness of that summer,
my heart was just as broken as yours.
We were replacements for loves
lost to others, to time, to our own stupidity.
We weren’t made to last.

A season or two later, I saw your wedding picture
with the younger girl you left me for,
a series of Benday dots in black and white.
You would be her first love.
She would believe she was yours.

Every spring I watch the buds
of the yellow crocus pierce
the soil ahead of every flower,
blanketing the spring grass
with their color. As the cold, damp
earth warms to the touch of my bare feet,
I think of us and them.
No matter how beautiful the summer’s flowers are,
the earth mourns the loss of its first bounty,
sweet and delicate,
too fragile to last.