Indian Summer in Christmas
Indian Summer in Christmas
She lies on the grass decked in denim with her knees drawn up. Sunlight fills in the space between her legs and softly blesses her zippered flower of womanhood with golden nourishment from the sky. Her head rests upon a patch of leaves as her eyes gaze through the valley between her upraised knees.
The newborn sun peeks through the trees, to become fire obliterating my eyes until all that’s left is heat and flame. I bestride Rosa like a colossus. She looks up to where my blue jeans are so tight that my banana in its hammock clearly points at the sky.
Record highs on Xmas eve mean we strip to our undergarments to tussle among in the winter wheat under the Mississippi cloudscape. We are like wrestlers in a love match for a farm boy and girl getting mud caked in ice age loess soil until nature takes its course for only the blackbirds to witness.
Rosa’s family cannot understand her need to model her lingerie outside. I tell her that her body, which to me represents the perfection of beauty in the female form, need not be hidden in pre-exhibition drapery. Her form reminds me of one of the statues of Aphrodite I saw in an art book back in high school.
We sit by the millpond where egrets form kung fu poses on cypress knees. Soon yellow light sparkles on the pond’s surface as a breeze makes ripples through the water. I sit on a tuft of grass beside Rosa and breathe deep. Rosa says, “Pablo, you are my confessor in whose eyes I have no need to repent. Your physique has symmetry which seems to be perfect. Your body intrigues me like one of those perfect Pythagorean forms must have intrigued the ancient Greeks.”
A murmur of wind blows through the treetops. The pond water is stained a deep caramel color by the tannic acid of decaying vegetation. Sunday morning laziness settles across me like a warm bath.
Rosa’s father lets us linger in childhood for just a few more seasons. I tell Rosa, “I feel guilty for feeling such serenity while your father toils to feed and house me.”
She replies, “Pablo, you worked your balls off out here on the farm for my father. You have nothing to feel guilty about.”
Strange, I thought how the sun on my naked skin makes such worries inconsequential. But this morning I feel like flying with butterflies through the sunny green of pine boughs across the deep blue skies on a journey of awakening. The earth is so close like a lover touching my innermost being.
Returning, our feet tread the tilled earth in green fields between rows of stalks. On either side of me, the wheat tassels wave in the wind as though acknowledging my passage. Rosa wears only her bra and panties because she doesn’t want the mud from our tussle to get in her designer jeans.
So her derriere is a double dare with the shape of the round fruit of a tree of the rose known as an apple. Her lustrous cinnamon strands are woven in braids of maiden splendor. Her tresses roll over her nymphic swells under blue velvet skies where fleecy clouds migrate.
Soon the pastel sunset shines through the clouds with the pale blue sky etched with crimson. The sun sinks in a fiery burst laying darkness across the land. The wind blows across the fields. A train whistle blows a plaintive note. Stars sparkle on like Christmas tree lights.
We lay in the evening chill of December in a dome tent on an air mattress cushion with the rain flap unneeded. The gossamer net mesh ceiling is translucent to moonbeams as we lie bundled beneath a wool blanket amongst waving tassels of wheat bathing in the moon-glow.
I gaze through the distance between us into her eyes on fire with Christmas Eve wonder. The evening star blesses us, shining like a mother’s love upon our frail bodies. The purest love fills my soul. All pretense dissolves in her embrace. Only she and I are here, to imbibe each other’s liquor with the wind rustling the wheat. Mistress Venus blesses the sacrament of our holy union.
We lie upon the rich earth and abide in each other’s bosoms. Golden words tumble from my mouth; the intimate secrets of my yearning unfold in whispered tenderness leaving me vulnerable.
We are enveloped by the natal mystery of the newborn Christ child in a magical time. Church bells ring joyfully across the dark fields. Our sacred passage down the river of childhood is complete as we float into the distant dark sea of life.