Try to Tell Myself...

No dandelion, this – I cup
in my hand, but her upturned
freckly-face, topped by a spiky mop
of yellow curls.

No Eden, this – wherein I walk,
but twixt the cleft
of this green hill...the tilt
from one village into the next.

A willow courts the stream – slips,
giggling by, and hers is the laughter;
her voice – the chattering pines;
the rustle of leaves – her footsteps
on the scree.

Yet, who am I trying to kid
as the wind, suddenly blows chill?
As clouds play tag with the sun –
for a moment, she is gone;

nothing more than a handful
of words – flown from my mind
like a bevy of birds...Until

across these same corrugated fields
and further than the eye
could ever hope to see – breaks
her smile. For here – she is.