Nothing that I think or feel is new,

but now it’s mine to taste and savor,

and as I breathe the warm, sweet air in this sunny room

I think of ancient times--

times before history—

when men, some young, some old looked up

at the stars and moon with wonder and with questions,

or watched that ball of fire,

we call the sun, move from dawn to dusk,

and in its light and heat, together,

they sang songs of praise

and gratitude.

And when they drank from the river

where they swam and fished and sat,

they must have felt the thrill

I feel, sitting by this pond,

learning that love is a force

that overwhelms the blood

and rising with the beating heart,

arouses passions beyond reason.

The women must have known

more than they could say

and laying with their men

learned the holiness of lust

that grows their children.

And even at my age,

thinking about the old men by the river,

grandchildren on their laps,

I still feel this longing for a woman’s touch,

her lips, her breasts, the warmth of her

opening,

and looking out my window

at the water rippling by, close my eyes,

remembering nothing’s new…