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White puffs of steam rose in the valley at the forest's edge
while from the peaks of milky mountains trickled rivulets of wet.
His senses stirred now, he descended to inspect the scruffy hedge
where blue flowers marked the fountain where their destinies had met.
Limbs and branches, I embrace you, nostrils greedily take in
fragrant breezes from the meadow and its mossy forest floor,
oh sweet nectar of Ambrosia, clover honey kiss my chin.
Will the gods allow him entry, will they bar to him the door?
Manic flush spreads over flowers to the curled and distant toes
in the night's romantic hours, lit by stars,
find the spring that feeds the fountain and the little ruby rose
in the vineyard of the greatest pinot noirs.
There is thunder, there is lightning near the cave's inept embrace
flashes streaming off the phallic end of poles,
ring-like muscles quickly tight'ning, moonlight covering a face
holding tight and pouring fire over coals.
In the frosty morning's shiver a crescendo can be heard
and from mist arises urgently a crest,
from a tall and stoic pinetree sings a rosy-feathered bird
and descends like Vienna music on her breast.
Though this night has not yet ended, still carressing willing flesh
in the darkness of the stalagmitic cave,
when the trumpet sounds the signal, a volcano of crème fraîche
covers secrets in a never-ending wave.
Herbert Nehrlich
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