PROMISE Poem by Meira Delmar

Some blue and flowered morning
we shall sweetly go, hand in hand

to listen to the stories the brook whispers
before the amazement of the bare stones . . .

We shall say, love, just one word:
our eyes will speak in their language of magic,

and the curious breeze will arrive quite still
without breaking the spell of the enchanted tour . . .

Afterwards . . . like a bunch of beautiful new grapes
cut from the grapevine by inexpert hands-

I will leave in your mouth with some fear
the ignored flavor of my first kisses . . .