White puffs of steam rose in the valley at the forest's edge <br />while from the peaks of milky mountains trickled rivulets of wet. <br />His senses stirred now, he descended to inspect the scruffy hedge <br />where blue flowers marked the fountain where their destinies had met. <br /> <br />Limbs and branches, I embrace you, nostrils greedily take in <br />fragrant breezes from the meadow and its mossy forest floor, <br />oh sweet nectar of Ambrosia, clover honey kiss my chin. <br />Will the gods allow him entry, will they bar to him the door? <br /> <br />Manic flush spreads over flowers to the curled and distant toes <br />in the night's romantic hours, lit by stars, <br />find the spring that feeds the fountain and the little ruby rose <br />in the vineyard of the greatest pinot noirs. <br /> <br />There is thunder, there is lightning near the cave's inept embrace <br />flashes streaming off the phallic end of poles, <br />ring-like muscles quickly tight'ning, moonlight covering a face <br />holding tight and pouring fire over coals. <br /> <br />In the frosty morning's shiver a crescendo can be heard <br />and from mist arises urgently a crest, <br />from a tall and stoic pinetree sings a rosy-feathered bird <br />and descends like Vienna music on her breast. <br /> <br />Though this night has not yet ended, still carressing willing flesh <br />in the darkness of the stalagmitic cave, <br />when the trumpet sounds the signal, a volcano of crème fraîche <br />covers secrets in a never-ending wave.<br /><br />Herbert Nehrlich<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/our-place-3/
