His voice in her darkness, her voice in his light.
Walls she believed firm tumble into waves and wells.
The horn of his voice sounds, and there are shells
where eggs were, at a touch she is water and white.
Mornings everywhere. This something new and yet not.
Transparency. What is a window? What a wall?
Veils play at tents. She takes off her clothes, opens all,
does not pretend. And does — wishing so she were caught
up in his all — sweet reedy cries and sighs
in that wilderness, wind stripping the blossoms bare.
When will I find you? she does not ask, When and where?
knowing the tender roughness of his voice implies
only tenderness as fact. They both ride the wind
of One voice, blowing them wherever they will end.
A very old poem. I thought I’d already shared it here a long time ago. Sharing it now because someone sent me a gift of some lovely broadsides, and this poem is as close as I could come to those shared with me.
Rosefire Rising 