The Spring Slopes of Her

There is a dream. In this dream she’s here. I can smell her fragrance. I can hear her breath break the silent dawn. I can feel her movement beneath the sheets we share, and the sweet emotion that wells up within me as she reaches for me in her sleep.

It wasn’t  but the night before that we fell in love. Our words spilled together like autumn leaves in a mountain stream. We opened gates in walls we had built so long ago, allowing passage to this one who knelt before us seeking entry. We threw caution to the wind, and like airborne seeds offered to the forest winds, we surrendered knowing not our destination but trusting in the breeze that gave us hope.

She’s beautiful. Her eyes capture me, her lips invite me. The sound of her voice sends chills down my spine, and the touch of her hand sends waves of indescribable energy throughout my entire universe. We kiss for the first time, and it is all either of us can do to stand, the weakness in our knees betraying the power of the moment. This is what we’ve lived for.

Post autumn, we’ve survived the winter. Now, like a beast, I have awakened to her lips, and I am drawn to the sweet, spring slopes of her. There are so many places to explore; the beauty of her curves, her hills and valleys, her lofty peeks. I am thirsty for her soul and hungry for her body, as the writer goes dormant and the lover blooms.

I see those spots I’m drawn to touch. It’s as if the Voice within us speaks, rendering words impossible to offer. I kiss her there, her knees buckle. I allow my lips to follow her unspoken guidance, and she falls into me, knowing I will catch her, hold her, and carry her wherever she needs to go.

No words continue to be spoken. We look deep into each other’s eyes as she lets me in, and I can’t tell if these are tears or beads of sweat rolling down my face. Either are a gift of joy in honoring the journey that got us here.

Love was made, and ecstasy was discovered in the union we had shared. The silly voice of fear would sing, but louder came the determined voice of love. There could be no other, in this moment that never fades.

See, there is this dream. In this dream she is here. It is that dream that propels me upward when I think I’ve reached my limit. It is this dream that sees me stand in the dizziness, breathe in the thinnest air, and proves to me that I’ve never, ever, have had too much to bear. I’ve survived the harshest winters just to see those spring slopes of hers.

When this dream is realized, this writer will put down his pen for just a moment to turn the page, be silent as our story starts, and watch fiction become fact right before our eyes. These moments demand our full attention as the well runs over and the fruits become abundant. It is then the story becomes worth sharing again. This time, however, two hands will hold the pen.