She turns into a quickening storm,
his song falling
along her neck
from a thousand miles away,
a low humming
like rocks under a creek bed
celebrating sun
(her day has not yet found his night).
No remorse
with the song unsung
but loved
and he tells her,
‘your heart is not wanting;
trust it.’
The Word Rummager 
Oh my, how I do love this poem. It feels as soft as a familiar song. “She turns into a quickening storm,
his song falling along her neck” I’m thinking Dusty Springfield should sing this! Thank you so very much. 🙂
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