Of His
Hand
Her cheeks turn
scarlet,
Standing next to the
one who she would call
“Best Friend.”
Her mind is racing a
mile a minute,
And like the
grass of the
fields,
The little boy rustles his fingers;
To remind her that he
hasn’t yet let go.
She comes back to
reality,
And looks down,
embarrassed.
While :smiling) faces longing for a
camera;
Capture the moment in
their minds.
Then a familiar voice
breaks,
Across the lawn, to
us.
He gently
releases,
His small summer-warm hand,
And runs to the
call;
Leaving the moment that
seemed like forever,
And leaving her
alone with the memory,
Of his hand.
