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Old-Growth Forest

by Nancy Diamante Bonazzoli

I don’t want to touch you
only through a priest
in a temple.

Come run with me
into deep virgin forests,
our faces damp
and misty,
our bodies swaying
like dense ferns
in breeze-swept underbrush
so silent,

Come lie with me
root your seed
sum and substance
while canopied leaves shelter us.
We’ll draw sustenance
from the fertile soil
of each other’s

My lips
soften with each whisper
of your homage;
my pores
open to the warmth of you.

Your smell
brings me
to my knees!

Oh, my beloved!
How precious
these lives
of lovemaking.

How sad, those who do not yet feel
your love.

Lone pennies
dropped into the poor box
just outside

Copyright © 2020 by Nancy Diamante Bonazzoli

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