I wrote this poem ten years ago. Its tone reminds me of the Song of Songs, from the Old Testament,
King Solomon's ode to erotic love. I put it into my novel, "The Gods of The Gift" as part of an exchange of
poems that occurs among my characters as they cross a vast desert
Am I ready to love?
How much more of the perfume of my soul
must I exude, before she tastes its waft upon the air
and is drawn to me?
How can I be patient,
when to feel the heat of her body
close to mine
is as miraculous as the sunrise?
When will I feel her hair in my hand?
When will I touch her cheek with my lips?
It is not the great rush of consummation
that calls me, but the simplest gestures.
I will smell her breath, and my blood will triumph.
I will brush her hair, and feel the softness of her life
in my hands.
I will know the curve of her throat,
the music of her voice.
Her hand will be a warm spring
always rising from the depths
heated by love.
Her touch will put me on a silken throne.
I will awake each morning eagerly
with the salt of her in my mouth.
My days will be a song of gratitude
that she has come,
my nights a roving through untold treasures.
Her love will restore to my lover's heart
the magic kingdom of childhood.