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 R Barden, March 6, 2021, rewrite March 6, 2022
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