Ode To Verde Lee Allen

After sixty-six years, what remains of first love Is just your name really, but still it lingers, Like the fragrance of a rose petal kept in a diary. It may seem strange to some, but I do call it love Though we were only 1st graders, wishing on a star. At recess you were Dale Evans And I was Roy Rogers, as I recall, There was a commitment of sorts for sure, Our fantasy roles of a future adulthood Already including both individuality and marriage, What we knew of heart freely given. It was clear that others wanted what we had too. I’m sure that was part of its appeal. I remember clearly that at least one time You and your mother came to my house and I proudly showed you the playhouse that Mom and I had constructed on our front porch Out of old appliance cartons from Dad’s store, Their wood ribbed cardboard panels perfect For erecting sturdy fantasy structures That resembled a real house, Windows and doors carved easily where desired Using a paring knife in the softer cardboard. I know I wanted to kiss you and think I told you, But, I am also pretty certain that it didn’t happen. I suspect you told your mother, for I believe it was Your last visit, though I don’t regret wanting the kiss. And then you just vanished from my life, Your family moved away, to Freedom, Oklahoma, Which was like going to the moon at our age. I discovered this only recently from another friend Who was also enamored of you. Know for sure that We both hope you found freedom, Even sixty-six years later, and still dream That you, perhaps, think fondly of us as well. May this poem compensate somehow for the kiss That you and I both missed, as I honor too, The young boy who first gave you his heart. Brian Johnston October 11, 2015