Gina Again

It was ecstatic electricity. That touch of velvety, delicious skin, the sun had, reasonably, retreated and in the forest we felt wild and free. Though Gina was my cousin - next of kin. It's rather sad, I do not see her much, but when I do she smiles a kiss for me, and soon we're seen, just walking through the trees, it's so much easier to reminisce. No electricity - without the touch. I tell her then about the morning moon. The day I peeked before the farming chores, it's good for many moments of sheer bliss, and then, we talk about the birds and bees. And end up on the castle's granite bench, just talking, laughing, being kids again. 'Til Dawn arrives, a chill has found our knees, it's time to go, we know, I deftly pick a bunch of purple flowers (trade for smile) . Downhill it is - I use my walking stick. It always is my mother who objects when two first cousins of a certain age go off into the blackness of the woods. She says that decency surely reflects upon the human being who observes the values of her generation's past. Her spectacles do judge all blossoms now. But really, my Gina has the goods. My mother is a carrier of nerves that vacillates from peace into wild rage. And once again, she's either least or last. Was that the fragrant burping - of an Angus cow?