and aging goddesses

20th of November, 2005
 
We met at the orchards.

You were a virgin sun, warm
on my frost stricken extremities,
your touch, tender to my sacred spot
that stays guarded to most.

We danced to Sade;

your fingers drew curves round my hips,
claiming my frame could run rings
on those that bloomed long after me;

I fell in your eyes,
a beacon of brown
and felt the blush of your smile,
in mine too, for that matter,

then I flirted my head
to where we'd lay down,

as you had commissioned me
to teach those kind of things
that you hadn't been
schooled in much.

You were soft in my hand,
sweet winter sparrow,

though I grew leery of crushing you,

fearing I'd take you too far
into the world
of my own decadence.


As I bring you
pink blossoms,

borne in the trenches,
nourished despite
the pain of the marrow,

for you'd come to remind me,
that once I was a sapling,
kneeling
on the altar of innocence,
before lacerations
deepened to puncture wounds,

testing the grit
of both veteran sycamores
and aging  goddesses.