A poem about being old, for Ten

I comply, flexibly, like a willow
He sweeps me over with gentle hands
As if I am water, soft waves pushed
I am his doll, for him to play with
I trust him beyond the furthest point
I move closer to the other side of the world
I feel him, I hear him, I smell him, I savor him
As a new bud savors the sun, this vintage rose does still bloom

Comments (9)

Thats a poem about rooting, not old people.
Roses stay blooming when orchids have long withered.

It seems it is good to be surrounded by pricks
Good one Molly
Pat, it’s about wood
mm .. (stiffs up).

Bull aside, I like it very much. Very sensual in a very delicate way. I wouldn't have managed without being somewhat explicit.

Keep up the good work. lips lips
You know your stuff Palm ...you do wine
Thank you, 10 lips
Cach, if age is a number, mine is lucky
Hi, palmfrond.

From what I've seen of your blogs, you seem to spend quite a lot of your time being swept over with gentle hands. Good for you.

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