By Gala
Date: 13 December 2000
Cinnamon Ridge
The cabin smells of ginger
alspice,cinnamon and clove---
overlaid with the rich scent
of making butter and almond.
I came alone to bake
and listen to christmas music
and do those hundred small tasks
that all needed done.
But the door closed behind me
and the ache in my throat
had nothing to do with a cold.
We agreed that I needed to do these things---
and yet---
without you the wind that made this place snug
sounds like the voice of a woman weeping.
This is foolishness...
mooning for you like this.
I set myself to creaming butter,
greasing cookie sheets,
sifting, measuring, mixing.
I sing to myself,
every carol I can remember
and smile when my voice plays against the beams.
Hours later,
I pack the cooled cookies,
and tell myself that it's really okay---
but no sooner do I form the thought
when an ache takes me toes to thighs
a need so sharp to feel you close
that one tear breaks loose
and lands on a butter cookie I missed.
And then I feel you
turn and find you sheepishly smiling,
arms wide, and welcoming.
"Icing cookies is a two person job"
you say casually, picking up the damp offering
and popping it in your mouth.
"I got jealous of the tick." you add,
"Touching you---if I couldn't."
as I flow into your arms
bury my face in your neck,
then turn up my mouth for a hungry kiss.
You taste of vanilla, butter and almond
sweet and sexy,
full and fine.
And I decide then and there
that we will dine by the fireplace,
russian tea and cookies---
but first I will
sample your holiday fare
and love you completely
and not even pretend
to be annoyed that you are here
holding me close as clothing
taking my lips like a small sacrement
and making the Ridge
again a place resplendent
with your sweet love and tender regard.
"The cookies can wait love---" I whisper,
"but I can't...
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