Spring Morning Light
Spring Morning Light
By John Yager
Just a few words on the joys of being in love in the spring of the year and the spring of life.
This is a fantasy, not meant to draw on any specific person or persons, so make it your own and enjoy it.
Andrew, thank you again for so much help, for good advice, for proofing and editing and, most of all, for making me look so much better than I am.
This work is copyrighted by the author and may not be reproduced in any form without specific written permission from the author. It is assigned to the Nifty Archives under the terms of their submission agreement but it may not be copied or archived on any other site without the written permission of the author.
jvoyager@hotmail.com
Lying naked under budding trees, on a blanket spread on the new, green grass, so brilliant that it looked like jade, the sky an azure which could break your heart, I wait for you.
I feel you coming to me through the woods, the snap of branches, heralding you, as stirring as the trumpets of a king. There is too long a wait between the sound of your approach and your arrival.
"Hello, my love," you say, looking down at me, I looking up at you.
You stand over me, a warrior-king, just come from distant lands. From my vantage point, below you on the ground, I look up at your manliness in awe of all you are.
I watch in wonder as, one garment at a time, you shed your clothes and, naked now like me, stand in such splendor that the trembling light makes ripples over skin and outlines form.
"I want you."
"Yes," you say, your voice resonant in the woods, vibrating with the joy or our youth.
You kneel beside me, hands on thighs, not touching me, but filling me with want as your eyes move over me, caressing every part.
"I want you now."
"I know."
"But, please."
"Just wait, my love, and let me look at you."
I tremble as I feel your gaze, so tangible I gasp as nerves respond to phantom touch.
"You are so beautiful," you say, and I demur. My beauty is the beauty of the moon, reflected brightness, not its own.
At last, satisfied with your inspection, your hand moves over me. I feel your warmth before I feel your touch. Your palm is resting in the center of my chest, a gentle laying on of hands.
I moan.
"I know," you whisper and your lips find mine.
We murmur sounds of love, sounds of want and need, of gifts to give and to receive. We murmur words no language can define, as if our love has found its own vocabulary. We are so rich in words, so filled with joy and with love, our souls ache for one another more than flesh.
I spread my legs to welcome you and you respond by moving over me. I lift myself to welcome you and you respond by coming close, your manhood touching my most tender part. Your dampness provides the only salve we need as you press into me.
Our mouths, still sealed, make little gasps as I greet you, despite the momentary pain.
The words of love we share are doubled as our bodies press, your chest to mine, the totality of you, your substance and your weight, so welcome, so consuming, so complete.
My eyes stare into yours, conveying my desire. Yes, it is all right, all right. You know my meaning and comply.
Your body tenses and with one advance, you press your mass into me, length and girth, in one advance, possess me, happy serfdom, a dependency.
My gaze wanders past you to the boughs of trees, above us, dappling light.
Cézanne could not have painted this with certainty.
The limbs of subtle oak move in a rhythm like our own. The trees are choreographed with us in the same dance, they the corps, and we the pas de deux.
"Oh, yes," I utter when your mouth frees mine, allowing mortal speech.
"Oh, yes."
"I know it can't last long."
"Just for eternity."
"The moment?"
"No, my love."
"An hour."
"Far more."
"A lifetime."
"Yes. For now."
"And still?"
"As long as time."
"I know."
The rhythm of our bodies moves with trees, and trees with clouds so high above we can only touch them with our souls.
"Oh, yes."
"I think it's time."
"Yes, time and out of time."
"All time."
The trees and sky and spring all sing with us as the moment comes.
The end.