The first day in April, my birthday month.
I walk with the hounds through the tiny village. The sky is hung blue over the weathered ironstone cottages. A pale sun is smearing the walls with gold. The yellow daffodils are abundant and vivid against green. A magnolia is ripe and creamy with flowers. Birds rustle noisily. The bleating of ewes and lambs echoes and stretches over fields.
There are a million pale green buds bursting open on dark, skeletal trees. Branches and limbs bleed from old scars.
Spring has come. Sap is rising.
I can feel it surging within me as I stride out past the church, along the farm lane, past wooden fences and shifting, silent horses.
I can feel it pulsing through my veins and sense it pumping beneath my skin. I am pleasurably aware of a slight but perceptible tumescence between my thighs.
But it is not the approaching summer that is causing my own sap to rise, lifting me in spirit and body on this bold, bright, brave afternoon.
Unless that summer bears your name.
© the author writing as Romantic Dominant
Photograph of sap taken from Pinterest, provenance unknown. If it is yours I will credit or remove.