Take This Bouquet

Old we may be, but out of touch
we are not. Our love, no longer fresh
after fifty-five years together, has
become a rare jewel we hoard and
treasure. It is bleakly inconceivable
that a day could dawn when your
mind is too otherwise-engaged, that
your face does not turn to me, smiling,
radiating pleasure through my own
eyes, the very marrow of my essence.

A wink from you and I become a
shy girl again. When you guide me
toward another space and music we
both recall as though so many yesterdays
are but today, your firm hold and my
reactive movement create a gentle,
loving dance. Your touch melts me
toward rhapsody, as we sway.

My mind commends me, not toward
rueful recognition of youth and vigour
dissipated in the mists of time, but
rather toward celebration at the
generous, pleasurable present. Each
day is another gift, one we meet headlong
and with the expectations due it.

Close to you, I am complete, and
there is no longing for what was.
Since what was inevitably created,
for us, what now indelibly is. Yet, what
is it, down there, softly interfering
with our glides, our fluid, synchronized
dance steps, our assured, light-headed,
heart-stopping movements, our
natural clinging to one another?

Something, some life-force has
finally succeeded in interceding
between our oneness of soul and
body. Tiny he may be, but resolute
as only a minuscule toy, male dog can
be, grasping my ankle, assured of
ownership of that suddenly desirable
object, exuding a sexuality that
the naughty devil well recognizes.