The Dance - Robin Jacobson

On the walkway above the summer creek
we touch and kiss, your hand cups
the long smooth muscle of my back,
we move to the pulse of valve and blood.
Our bodies urge us, they say
yes, and oh yes. But the waiting
is so sweet we choose it, we linger
at each brush of lip on lip as if it were
new wine, to be rolled around the mouth
before we swallow. Once, anticipation
was something to outrun.
Now, it's what we love most,
the slow, slow build before,
like all the little movements of our lives
gathering toward the last breath.