The wind that starts from nowhere,
The same that bends the pasture,
Is the whispering voice of my lover;
The hollering voice of the cowherd,
Call and response to the cattle,
Is my lover’s quickened pulse;
The breath of sweet pollen,
Exhaled from May orchard grass,
Is the same as my lover’s breath;
The black hose, mistaken for
A black snake in blue grass
Is only my lover’s arm, roped over me in sleep;
The gapped boards of the barn door,
Imperfect beneath a Saturday sky,
Is my lover smiling;
The fox, darting only to turn,
Staring, ears tufted like rose buds,
Has the same ears as my listening lover;
The fireflies, flickering beneath bats,
With tree frogs trilling,
Are my lover’s eyes, observing.
My favorite poem so far.
Ah, thanks! Sometimes they practically write themselves, effortlessly, as if plucked from the air. This was the case here.