Under the linden tree on the heath our two beds lie. There they’ll see matted flowers and leaves from where we sigh. On the edge of the dale: tanderaday sings sweetly the nightingale. I went a second time to our place under the tree where I knew you would come once more. Was it the intriguing aroma of lime, or the desire to be with me that brought you through the door? We read poetry in the grass, tanderaday, like prayers from an autumn mass. Under the linden sky, once again I waited for three’s a charm. Nearing with another guy, to me you narrated, “let’s make three a charm.” I bolted from the mound, tanderaday, O, how my feet struck the ground. Now and again, I come back to that place where we had met. The perennials begin to bloom in the space since our last tête-à-tête. The valley is alight with Spring tanderaday, softly the nightingales sing. -Samantha Derleth