Plum Blossom
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my flower ...
she sang for me -
ONLY for me
always in Japanese …
I did not know the words
I never asked her to translate
nor did I want the
jagged crimping of my own tongue to
ever attempt the exquisite
phrasing of her dialect …
the notes were enough
their tone and timbre, a rhapsody, divine
a sacred tome -
a spellbinding tale that ran swift
through my marrow
like Autumn’s rain through a rill -
that grasped me ...
plucked the fibers of my being
decanted my very soul
and poured me out with an
ache I'd never known
an ache of passion -
the purest, most perfect passion
like a nightingale singing for
its mate, long lost
or the belly-laugh of a child …
it brought tears to us both
a delicate weep that christened our kiss -
swirled in the bittersweet
mix of our mouths ...
and no matter their origin -
whatever the mystery that bled
brine from her eyes
was gifted to me in each
tender press of lips
and drowned in the warm, dark depths of
her secrets …
and the love we made ...
by moonlight.
Copyright © Gregory Richard Barden | Year Posted 2021
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