The pond is frozen over, fountain bubbling beneath a crown of thick ice. A friend brings food and a red poinsettia. She tells me bluebirds have returned to the river. This garden is a dance of sparrows, chickadees, finches, juncos ~ and each day, a visit from the hawk.
I shop for long underwear and thick socks. The dogs shiver on their beds. This sky opens so wide, so blue at midday ~ but the days are narrowing down. Why now, in this quarter-moon, pre-solstice darkness, does my old body hum with forgotten desire?
a brush of cotton
my nipples
harden
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Beautifully said, Sharon.
Posted by: patry | 08 December 2005 at 11:12 AM
I'm glad you think so. I felt some trepidation about posting this one.
Posted by: SB | 08 December 2005 at 10:59 PM
Maybe it's just the cold?
(kidding!) :-)
Posted by: Patia | 09 December 2005 at 11:59 PM
My dear Mother just passed, at the age of eighty. Dad said she was interested in the life of desire and passion until the end. So, don't give up! I know I won't!
Posted by: Ken | 10 December 2005 at 11:09 PM