Having been inside
and felt it, enveloped, like
a secret poem wrapped
in scented paper
sealed with wax,
sent with a kiss on raven’s wings.
Her flight a fleeting memory
over oceans and high ridges.
undaunted, the undertow
of ripped currents, nor gusts
of stout derechos, nor flames
devouring forests, nor avalanche
of melting ice, nor quakes
or mudslides or the great flood
to end times can cast out
the pure intent of those lines
composed with tears, torn
from a notebook with such haste,
that sultry summer day.
the fragrance of skin on skin
wrapped in a warp of time
lovers scramble
not to waste.