a.d. winans | poem for my first love

A.D. Winans


Seven months into
my 77th birthday
I slip back in time
I’m driving highway 1
where California’s fertile hills wink at me
giant trees and seashore
merge into one
pink clouds ride the horizon like
Gerinmo rode the plains
in search of the last buffalo

sweet mango’s and watermellon wine
sweet as cotton candy
stuck to the roots of my tongue
fed my youth nourished my spirit
the poem the language in my soul

your body indented against mine
hot as an iron pressed to a garment
youthful hunger that knew no bounds
feasted like a condemned man
devouring his last meal
the way eskimo’s swallowed
the tears of the dying
to keep the one gone with them

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