Golden Years

There are no words to say how good it is to be with you,
cushioned in your lushness, breathing easy, sensing
everything in you that I am not; brainy, bountiful
and beautiful, exuding oodles of charm.

When we first met it wasn’t love at first sight;
I already knew you from a head full of dreams,
waiting with a full heart, saying “Love Lives Here”

My adoration of you began years ago, when—
for the first time—I met cousin Hermione, forever twelve,
riding her piebald Palomino, her long brown hair flowing
in the wind. When she moved away she left her imprint in my soul.

The first time we met my hand began to levitate, my index finger
pointing right at you. Pheromones instantly kicked in, I knew your
scent was meant for me; you were better than Hermione,
rare as an Indian penny, incapable of being mean.

Sleeping or awake, I love to touch your face and all your secret parts,
every nook and crevice that now I know by heart. You’re as delicate
as a hummingbird, but when everything falls apart I can count on you
because you’re enduring as a granite plinth, reliable and resolute.

Enchanted by the sound of your voice and when you call my name
my heart unzips with unshackled rapture.
When you’re behind the stove my mouth waters for your creative cookery,
the way recipes are tossed aside as you dance through improvised delights.
Memorable treats like magical soufflés, bouillabaisse and ratatouille.

Embracing you in bed is as enigmatic and elusive as seducing Greta Garbo,
but your esoteric sense of presence garnered from LaoTzu makes all my dreams come
true. Time must have stopped; after more than half a century, you never do grow
old. Your hair, streaked grey, only enhances the beauty of your youth.

Please continue to use my chest for a pillow when we become steeped
in the pleasures of the afterworld. Everything’s going to be all right
as this husband and wife rest under a panoply of hieratic stars.

Milton P. Ehrlich