Sunday, September 29, 2013
Stories have to be told or they die, and when they die, we can't remember who we are or why we're here.
We sat in a honeyed truck
one sweet sticky summer
when more than bees hummmed
in the old south 1960s
an old story, new for a girl just fourteen;
a story older than hate-
love, love came first.
I had confused stories in my head
all but one- a story about a summer,
bees and a kiss.
I hummed that summer-
sweet tea, bees, me a girl named Lily
loved by Seasons and a sweet boy
who gave me my first kiss
in the old south 1960s,
a story older than hate.
Honey sheen, and gold beams shone
that summer a sweet boy
gave me my first kiss.
linked with Susie's Secret Life of Bees prompt.