snowfall, drifting like feathers against the street lamp
the crunch of snow beneath our boots,
the brisk night air far from damp
the feel of your gloved hand reaching for mine
this walk on a snowy evening, you say, is simply divine
but it’s what awaits us that excites you the most
a roaring fire, reading love notes that you wrote
as i’ll admire the view of you in exquisite lace
the string of pearls i gave you gracing your secret place
gliding, tingling, awakening
sensations only i can command
with a simple look, a touch of my hand
no need to say more for you understand
that you are mine and mine alone
your heart, your soul, your every moan
but not yet, i say as i bring your hand to my lips
let’s enjoy this walk on this chilly evening,
there’ll be so much time later
for kisses and whips to seal this partnership
Goodness gracious! I was just going to post summer pictures because I’m in Southern California but I’m supposed to post something that depicts my “own” season, as well. And since I’m no spring chicken, this was the best I could do from the depths of my iphone photo library!
When I was working in physical therapy, I remember how this one Physical Therapist in his late 20’s was pushing this middle-aged man to do certain exercises, and the patient said something that’s stayed with me since then.
“Twenty don’t know nothing about fifty.”
The PT laughed but to me, the older man was asking for respect for his own limitations based on his age. A 20-year old body will not have any idea what a 50-year old body will feel like, though that 50-year old will surely remember what it feels like to be 20. And now that I’m getting up there, those words always come back to me especially when I go to the gym and all the young guys and girls want to get me in tip top shape even after I finally told them that my doctor has put me on hypertension meds and I need to take it easy. I’ll still work out but don’t let me do freaking 20 sit-ups just because they can, and definitely not on my first day at the gym.
So, yeah, twenty don’t know nothin’ about fifty. Who knows, maybe the seaons are like that, too. How can summer know what winter feels like?