September 19, 2003
Dearest, Loving Eleanor,
Do you recall our first night in the field,
stumbling over roots
and each other
the cloak of familiarity yet to be?
It’s Autumn and I can think of nothing else,
the season exhaling through branches,
making leaves quiver and chatter like old friends.
the sound of subtle escape
easing from your throat like old jazz.
That same voice I hear confessing,
a curve grazed with teeth and tongue,
a smile running its length,
The lost island behind your ear
where secrets would land in years to come and
the devil’s den between chin and breast.
Keep our soil under your nails and
listen for the crows.