Fever overcomes me. The right wind
is euphoric; the touch of fingers.
I am the one who is going to cry
though my winter face will remain
dry as ochre pebbles. We are still
two cormorants, two pairs
of drying wings. I’m not willing to pare
my feathers, or toss words to the wind.
Your November face is still.
You touch my arms, my hands, my fingers
with your hair. Your scent remains
the dampness of morning as I cry.
We are equinoctial lovers. Do not cry.
I cannot anticipate. I cannot prepare.
I’m faithful, ever faithful yet I remain
unsure of the direction of the wind.
You unweave it; working your fingers
into the secret place where time is still;
a place where you are alone, but still
I am with you. I hear you cry
in concentric waves. Now your fingers
ponder. I’d love you to eat a pear,
to make your mouth bigger than the wind,
your colors springing up. You remain
a rapture in shades of cream; you remain
the whispering footwork but still
when you bear down in the wind
sea becomes sky. You cry
tears of many colors. Down your cheeks a pair
of enameled beads falls on folded fingers.
Thistles in the meadow reach like fingers.
Here and there among trees some leaves remain.
Shadowed in dusk through rising mist a pair
of silhouetted figures. Our bodies still
like wet leaves. On black waters the loon cries.
Shrills from temples in the wind.
Our mingled fingers still.
Though languid pools remain we cry.
A pair of gray violas in the wind.
Originally Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 2.
