And it was the first time,
that kiss, that Christmas.
You and she were walking
just behind the other members
of the church choir, carol singing,
the parson, conducting the members,
he in overcoat, hat on, scarf
against the cold, the evening air.
And she said, softly, so only
you could hear, softer than
the snow that threatened to fall,
I think I love you.
You, looking at her there,
standing inches away,
her breath high-lighted
in the light of moon
and the houses near by,
said, I love you, too.
Words, spread, as if
on free rein, like little children
off on some adventure,
some new game,
came quick and fast.
Then, she leaned in,
and kissed your lips,
pressed them so gently
on yours. So gently
that it seemed they met
yet seemed not to
in same breath.
You embraced her,
arms about her,
drawing her nearer,
her body, into yours,
warmth and warmth,
like two planets colliding,
not in crash, but as if
merged, entwined, as if one.
The sound of some carol
being sang breathed
on the air, floated there,
held in balance
by the gentle wind.
You and she parted lips
and bodies, but held hands,
a new love had been born,
a new fire started, feeling
erupted along the strings
of nerves, set mind on fire
with a new, unknown, never
before experienced,
out of this world desire.