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A Late Sowing of Wild Oats
A silvery crown adorns his head
Long curls drooping to his shoulder.
Her Apollo
But just a little older.
He squeezed her breast
Still firm and large, perhaps a little brazen.
She dared stare at him
And say
I’m not yet like a raisin
Rather wine matured
Stout timbers are my cask
Taste of years gone by
But still able to fill my task.
To writhe in throes of love, I can
While I lie within this hunk
Fare me well while we can
Before we end up shrunk.
Shrunk and shrivelled is our future
Flesh and blood dried as stone.
For all the loves we never had
Let these ones try atone.
If in compassion do not tell me
I do not care to know.
Let us savour these late fruits
Before you, or I must go.
To go and not to taste the fruit
While softened bellies grow more thin.
Growing age and growing old
Enhances. Old does not make sin.
I’m not your Daphne, I’ll not run
No leaden arrow pierced my heart.
But when we finish this spate of love
I know that you’ll depart.
No children came to share my life
Nor revel beside my bed.
Such love as this I take
When all else has fled.
Ezra Ben-Meir, History: #264, Sep. 1985
©- This poem, with acknowledgment as to source, may be used
for non-commercial purposes.
Contact me for comments or printing at, ezrabm@gmail.com
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