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 of 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
hush
© Chagall 2014
Alphabet City 