It was my escape.  I'd go there to think, to write, to dream. 

He worked for the farmer next door.  One day he wandered over and it became a habit.  We'd sit and talk for hours.  Romance bloomed and after weeks of heavy petting, we finally gave in. 

Our passion burned hot as the red dress hugging my curves.  I sank down, my wetness enveloping his shaft.  His fingers tangled in my hair, our hunger was insatiable. 

August ended, 9/11 happened and I never saw him again.  Every summer I return, gliding through the poppies, wondering what might have been.