She professed her passions wholly mute
when enjoined at the cusp, lips tuned to lips,
yet he played virgin curves as a flute,
fingers fluttering with their deft-toned tips,
and he blew in measure so astute
the melody resounded through her hips,
and therefrom did vibrations take root;
from pelvis to legs, from bosom to nips.
Fragrant as fresh cut cedar
in early morning cold
and as waking
with the welcoming spread of your
you baffled yourself with the scents of your
dryad concealed behind civilized
You cling to embarrassment like roots
in snowpack-buried soil.
Willfully deceived against your own feral
you flush as flame
when passion flares;
you are a
virgin to the knowledge
that love and shame were never opposed,
but complement in devout trust
like a flame-hearted hearth
redolent of cedar
and made of cold stones
hewn from the icy river.
Fret not for the purple heartwood
as the sacred fire burns between us.
My love, let us
commune in the ashen aftermath,
hot embers alighting upon Winter’s winds.
The warm rainstorm rushes
into the wanton lap of a valley,
and the hot river gushes
as Springtime passions rally.
The words of your love spill
like a quenching flood,
but after the brimming thrill
your heart is but silt and mud.
My sweet sake cup,
your selfless sacrifice—
how you fill me up,
emptying yourself of vice.