Water is an eager woman,
in wanton abandon,
when I swim, lunging
deep, deep, deep in to her
like in an ancient, pleasant anger,
she rolled around with me,
then sitting astride, atop
perfectly in control
her fingers deftly play
in ways I can't imagine.

Like the one in my teens
one of slender fingers
-and curiosity that kept eyes wide,
like sun flowers -  that made her explore.

She wouldn't yield
when I desperately
tried to stop her when
wriggling with pain
of intense pleasure, though
that's what one wanted.

The excruciating pleasure
the elder woman first introduced,
the red petals of secret flowers of passion,
in a wood across the river we bathed
absorbed  in each other's body
when we went to collect
the hanging nests of birds
they abandoned.

She taught me to swim
in her lovely stream
that was in spate
when we together
began to walk waterward.