Galatea

You are the very taste of joy,
Like the delight of snowflakes
On my tongue in January
The year I was six years old,
Or the weight of liquid sunlight
Dripping through the leaves
Of the Oak tree over the hammock
The summer I turned thirteen.
That was also the year you were six,
Chasing snowflakes,
Not yet wondering where I was,
Though I was already waiting for you,
Searching for you in the faces of boys,
Baffled as to why their eyes
Were somehow wrong.
Twelve years and eight mistakes,
But I knew you immediately.
The fire within
Animating you,
Bringing marble skin to life.
Suddenly I was six, and thirteen,
Twenty-five, touching your lips to mine,
Warm with the very taste of joy.