Salt-Water and Oaks

The waves of pleasure rolled over her little form, hidden in the dark.

She was seven and alone, completely unprepared.

No one had shared with her “the talk.”

No one knew it was time, that it would be past time,

Then it was. Past time.

Yearnings that grew originated and overwhelmed at night.

She’d never seen the ocean, been led to its shallows,

Been allowed to play in the eddies that gently romped and rolled.

Yet her little body remembered the beach, the waters, the rhythms.

The yearnings had come, their dark seed an acorn tossed onto sandy shores.

So of course, an oak tree grew, with strongly gnarled bark.

Its roots moved the sand to dig deep into fertile humus, dark soil required of life,

Its branches left the salts and stretched beyond ken toward gentling sunlight.

Now its buds come every season, breaking blossoms into winter flowers, whose

Bountiful leaves with thick-veined waters offer shade and solace.

Imagine her surprise when she finds herself rooted, planted, blossoming,

Grafted into another. His roots, blossoms, and gnarled bark?

Stunning, for she sees strength and safety of iron-bark mirrored, redemptive, gracious.

They intertwine roots, share branches and blossoms, committed as two into one.

How strange for salt-water and oaks to find voice here and now.

One of them spoke with a smile, you see,

Reframing all darkness and shame with surprise and delight:

“My wife is orgasmically-gifted. How cool is that? Really? Second grade?”