Jacaranda Blue

A girl met a guy on sandy Matala.
Summer days in sixty-nine,
would-be hippies dancing in limestone,
kids playing at a lifetime.
She wore half a suit of jacaranda blue.
And he posed, brave American,
in cowboy hat, patriotic flip flops,
and a come-on-try-me grin.
He spun aw-shucks stories of his father's dairy,
while she played Briseis to his Achilles.
They shared salt-water baths and licorice kisses
until tourist days faded into autumn's clouds.
On that last day, she clutched at his shirt,
tears on her lashes,
as navy guards watched them linger
at the gate, locked in a punishing last kiss.
She later married a cute Norwegian,
but thirty-odd years later,
she still sends a card at Christmas,
and he remembers jacaranda blue.