A little bell had rung,
and in the meadow
the sound of birds,
perhaps a nightingale,
by name of Florence
made all the shadows
and darkened places
safe again for you.
You stood before me
and nudged me just below
my left meniscus,
with your bare leg,
so smooth, with just a hint of
and we were moving closer,
I guessed because of
the frigid wind that blew
out of the Yukka Valley,
you held me close and I could
feel your breasts, so unencumbered
and braless, firm but soft
and lightly teasing all the hairs
of mine, while still allowing
the beating of your heart
to resonate with upper ribs.
I briefly wondered if they could,
in such a situation, the valves
of both our hearts, communicate.
Surely, they would be able to
become acquainted with each other
through touch, and their benign
and somewhat plaintiff sounds
of music, to be cherished.
I kissed you then, thinking it was
the thing to do, most certainly
it would be most appropriate,
and yes you gave me re-assurance
through your answer, another bell
had now begun to ring, doucement
so say the French, who know
about these things and more.
The silver moon had gone to bed
and so had Florence and her friends,
a grunt of a whole family of pigs,
the little guys so cute and striped,
passed within meters of our tree,
the wind had given up on all its kindness
and filled the gaps between us tightly,
a groan was heard from an old oak
and scratching sounds descended,
leaves were tumbling onto her arched neck.
It seemed as if we had been waiting
for something else to happen here, and now
tonight, this night, but for the life of me
I could not put my finger onto it.
I did recall, of course, that it had been
some forty years since last we met.
We kissed the same still, but there was
an item missing, blow me, if I knew.
Her knee was resting where she'd nudged me
still, and it felt nice. We were together,
and we stood to wait for something other,
when I became aware of new sensations.
A silly thought, though quickly now dismissed
that she had grown because her nudge had now
reached to the edge of lands that I had, plum,
forgotten, and recognition came at once.
And, so it happened, in that forest, under trees,
the moon had now returned and two could hear
the melody of that lone nightingale, so undisturbed
by other birds, a silence had arrived and stayed,
the family of porkers stood in awe, near the old oak
a reprimand by Dad to one striped guy for smacking
and there we were, back from the brink of a dementia,
the night was saved and nothing had been left behind.