GRAYWOLF AND THE DOVE

My husband's nickname was "Graywolf."  I was the "Dove".    I wrote this poem ten years ago.

            From the very first, tender kiss, when you put your hand into my hair and pulled me close to your lips at the airport, my heart has taken its own kind of flight...   A dove soaring, airborne on gossamer threads of love, careening towards joy!

            Holding me close, your hungry lips devouring my throat, my mouth, I feel it take flight, fluttering above me - that  poor dove, beating wings against the warm air...  Your breath sends it darting, here, there... trying to find a single sturdy branch upon which to land  - No chance!  Pulled earthward into your arms again...

            The sweetness of your enveloping lips, the warmth of your hands, caressing my body into ecstasy, take me higher than I ever imagined a bird could fly, soaring airborne on gossamer threads of love, careening towards immense joy! What sweetness, what heat, what dreams made real -- all you!

            The scent of your cologne, rockets my heart even higher, where my lips caress your own, your throat, your chest.... those big gentle, powerful hands, the taut muscles that pin me down to torture me more with those sensuous lips until I want to scream: free the dove, let her fly!

            What warm solitude, sweet security your arms, wrapped around me provide, just hold me forever and don’t wake me up ...  surely this is just a dream of a dove soaring, airborne on gossamer threads..... careening.... JOY!




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