Your poem

We each stood at the front of the classroom in turn,
voices stumbling over the words of the poem
we were forced to recite,
hands twisting, feet tapping,
excited to be back at our desks, where we were
alone
unnoticed
safe.
Nobody knew
what the poem truly meant.
It was hard to decipher,
but I think I got close.
Because it made me remember
how you read it last summer
as one of those blue-sky, 
no-cloud July days came to a close,
standing behind that small podium
in front of the lake,
freckled face glowing
in the golden evening light.
Gold, 
that poem was about gold,
metaphorical gold,
how it can't last forever.
And of course you'd read such a poem
because I now know
that you were the gold
of summer, of spring
that I have lost,
the magic that can never prevail.
And so that is why
I thought of you,
your green eyes, your laugh,
your enchanting smile,
as I recited that poem,
staring out at the sea of blank-faced classmates
who had no idea that I was not saying the poem we had to say for class,
but instead, your poem,
trying to sound half as good
as you did that day.