I remember when we met in that park just outside of Harvard Square.
You were the quintessential flower girl in your paisley dress and with a flower in your beautiful long, loose hippie hair.
We weren’t in the peace and love mecca, Haight-Ashbury Cali LA, but we might as well have been as mystical and magical as that Cambridge MA summer of love park was.
I felt the connection when you glanced at me with those irresistible sky blue eyes. My beating heart told me that sunny day was going to be the beginning of our summer of love.
To me you were as wondrously mysterious as a will-o’-the-wisp and like an ethereal goddess above all mortal women, who magically captured my heart, my love, my life in a summer’s minute.
Though when summer was done, you moved back to your parent’s estate in Queens, New York, and I moved back to a small town in Vermont,
and you became an ex hippie socialite, and I became a struggling writer doing menial jobs to support my craft, I knew I didn’t fit into your high class caste.
And though the summer love cooled off in the chilling winds of fall,
and the ill-fated, amorous dream was waked and buried in a cold reality,
that summer of love was the best summer of my life, the greatest of them all.
Bob Boyd
