Susan Daniels Poetry

All the girls that call themselves women
buzz like bees circling a bouquet
because the topic turns to love,
to true love, to the love of your life
& how they knew they found it
& with whom.

I am suddenly 16, when we
spent hours on the telephone
questioning the significance of a smile,
a nod, or even a hello
from the boy with blue eyes,
or the boy with dark eyes
with the smile that spread slow & delicious
as warm caramel poured over vanilla ice cream
& our unkissed lips
would part in bubblegum-flavored sighs
of expectation.

Are we still there, then,
hovering on the cusp of loving
& fainting with it,
or have we all learned
how sweet certain kisses taste
& how one touch from the right man, even the heat of his palm
on the small of the back is sometimes
exquisite?

Yes, I am far past
spreading emotions on the floor
& rolling in them
like a cat in sunlight
for all to see–this feeling
this knowing they revel in & share
like the girls they were & still are
has become for me
something to savor in silence

& is the reason for my smile.