I doubt she’d recall that ride through the walnuts,
one lost afternoon in the fall. With a city boy,
on penance in the country, who’d never ridden
before. She was kind in a time of rough edges,
shared her saddle along spice-scented rows.
I swayed behind her, astride a palomino,
never more aware of a girl. Heat rose in places
where the lines of us blurred, flared
when my hand brushed her breast.
I almost kissed her when she turned–
wish I’d kissed her. Instead
of still guessing what she meant
when she told me
not to let go.