We walk under a scorching sun next to the river. He is my guide. Decades younger than me. Yet every time he speaks, I blush. His voice is soft. I barely hear him above the river’s song. As I move in closer to hear his stories of this ancient Indian oasis, I see the delicacy of his fingers pointing to the flowers. As we climb the rocks, I watch the muscles of his calves flex. The heat has my head spinning and the rapid waters my heart racing.
fan palm fingers reach into the green spring yearning
Previously published in ContemporaryhaibunOnline.com, Oct. 2010, vol. 6 no 3.