When last the dogwood blossomed on the hill,
the sun was bright that April kind of day.
The birds sang sweetly and the breeze was still.
My love promised: “I’ll never go away.”
Walking up the hill, I thought
how vows are sometimes broken.
Pinned to the tree, I found his note,
its only word: “Goodbye.”
I might find someone else and fall in love.
But I doubt that will ever be the case.
My heart turned cold that April afternoon
when last the dogwood blossomed on the hill.
Copyright 2013, Freeda Baker Nichols