July 2004 / Volume Five / Issue Three / Online
Christopher L. Cussat

I donít know how I know your name,
I just do.
I think you told me it before I even
met you.
Calling out with the help of a chilly,
May wind.
And here I am,
finally and formally introduced,
as I rest my hand gently upon your breast.
Your body seems to twist and curve
beneath my touch,
even though I realize it has been for centuries.
Your skin is wrinkled, ridged with
thousands of tiny rivers,
and I find five grooves there - one for each finger,
for a perfect fit,
and I am assured that my visit is not an imposition.
I think the name means beauty.
Four hundred years old and growing more beautiful with
every year.
If only I had the cause to live so long,
or to be so beautiful.