Voices on the Wind Voices from Home
THE COMING OF SPRING by Dick Bakken We keep it inside, each deep at homeó Urgency for more than a shower, a fresh blouse of wet. O more than lace over a table in this room hidden among trees of heaven. If I climb a chair, shove out the skylights and dare even your name to the luminous buds, your feet stop naked there where you are. Up green along the puddles between any house and at last this other, shoots a bush, roots thrilled down into such odorous dark, while everything streaks with secret. Open your eyes and you are here, sending out the perfect one bloomed rose of your hand, each of us in gaze into the otherís new face, thunder rushed in over the hills. Who will know we each whisper to our blown curtains alone as you ascend onto the table and here I crash lace and goblets away to my floor. There you whirl! hands flashed out through a ceiling, hips like that wind we each hear bring in the clouds. Itís even darker with the fragrance of your hair lifting the houseóand oh! undersilks come wisping as amorous as rain to both floors. These are my shrieks, my claps of laughter while all that lightning cracks straight into each heart. Who stops outside on the stairway and sighs in a downpour Oh sad. Poor lonely. Thank heaven I hear you in there in the silver shower flood with the electricity that charges down your thighs . . . While under such earth-held boughs I whisper around in this room to the soaking furniture that at last you are here, are here, my darling, all green and so newly slender.