Twenty-year-old Poem

While purging the Diaries, I found my book of poetry. Okay, this one won't go into the flames. Besides, it has in it a poem I wrote 20 years ago that still means something to me. Here it is--

22 Sept 93

She ruffled through the trunk seeking the heaviest wool blanket she owned

Dragging it down to the river, she plunged it into the chilly water
soaking the wool until every last fiber was drenched
and the blanket threatened to sink to the bottom

Mustering all her strength, she pulled, dragged, coerced
this weighty, dripping beast up onto the bank

She wrapped it carefully around her desire
tucking in all the edges making sure no inch was left uncovered
and she sat there, waiting under the rising moon
waiting for the cool heaviness to smother her longing,
to quell the aching cry in her chest,
to soothe the burning that sped through her veins
and caused her loins to swell, her breasts to rise,
her neck to arch in sweet anticipation

But not even the dank, musty smell of wet sheep's hair
could overpower the musky scent of her desire

Steam rose from the damp form on the river's edge,
a fresh wind lifted the blanket up and away,
light as a feather

She was last seen singing gaily and dancing naked in the moonlight
before she disappeared across the bridge over which a sudden fog had settled

Let the purge begin

Scarlet has revived. She's focused internally this time. An argument about recycling oatmeal cans has started a purge storm in me, and I've just built a fire-- it's still cold out despite being weeks into spring. To my left is a box marked "Jillaine Journals". Haven't opened it yet, so don't know which years are in there. My plan is to skim them, capture what, if anything, I want from these collections of self-absorbed bullshit from my youth, then throw them into the fire. Even the family historian in me can't get upset about this (although I recall how appalled I was when I was still keeping journals to learn of anyone who would burn theirs). I have no descendants, and I seriously doubt that my nieces and nephews give a damn about what I wrote as a young (and then not-so-young) person. Would I want to have access to the journals of some distant ancestor? Probably. Most likely. But I can't stomach keeping all this crap around me. It weighs me down. I want to be free...