Rosemont, Mississippi

Hundreds of tiny frogs
smaller than the nail on the end of my pinky
hopped and skittered about in the
light brown mud of giant Mississippi.

Wild cotton fluttered in the
warm August breeze down the path
to her cool brown water.

The wasps zoomed and zagged
and buzzed about zinging from nest
to prey at the altar of the corpse
nearby.

The path was rife with life and noise
and the laughter of children pondering
the mud on my slacks and footprints
of all the Huck-Finn-Lovers who walked ahead of us.

I don't remember what you said
but when we stood atop the watchtower
the afternoon sun caught the golden tones
in your hair and the flecks of emerald in your eyes

I remember that.