It took me time to understand
I’d mistaken the flute as her voice

My awareness highlights her colors
to tingle emphatic – what we feel

All my memory is in her scent
clove-scented smoke from sacred temples

In glints of sunlight trapped in surface tension
atop the shimmer ofย  water

Hot sand sculpts our contour
ablaze we burn

Huddled under soft down under colder stars
under one another under no pressure

Pondering only the oldest questions
I have nothing but the newest wonder

She breathes, while I catch my breath
and exhale sharply, she gasps

And then we wholly surrender
to a sigh and the rush

To a

ยฉ Chagall 2014