You always remember your first love

Tightly curled under
the wooden table, red hair,
fire-lit, stroked by 
the invisible hand of 
a gentle breeze. The story

of my first love. Lost
in another world, whispered
sign of dreams, open 
fields, birds, maybe the turkey 
he ate whole that New Years’ eve.

Now sometimes our dreams 
collide, red curls, fire-lit, mix 
again, secrets are 
shared again, in a paral-
lel place at the edge of time.

by Rachel David

Free, 1987 (?)–2002

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