After fifty, sex is like blowing on coals.
Our forgetful bodies want the heat of passion.
Only love, the great aphrodisiac, enthralls,
enlivens all seven chakras, turns ashen
lips incarnadine, and repeals
the floe of lassitude that cools our blood.
Then our Indian Summer arrives, feels
this warmth out of season. The untimely bud
of passion quickens like a match. And our hot
breath feathers the kindled flesh. Like seasoned
wood we wait for deepest burning. Is this not
good husbandry and the sweetest reason,
that frees the logjam of our lustful art
until a cheery fire is burning on the hearth?