by Becky Adams
There is a place that beckons, safely tucked into the woods. Where we can rest, and watch geese and ducks as they glide across the still lake. It was our place, comfortable and quiet. Where we sat together, close, while I buried my face in your soft neck, and breathed you in! No sadness or sickness could find us there. We melted into golden sugar maple leaves of fall, and crisp green sassafras of spring. It was our place, and will be again. The north hill.