Come my lover, let us go to the countryside, . . .
If the pomegranates are in bloom—there I will give you my love.
Song of Songs 7:11-13
A cool sweet aroma fills the air,
humidity lifts from the river
and curls the fine auburn hairs on my head.
Broad orange flowers open,
turn delicate, and my love for you rises
on the wind like their fragrance,
like the winged insects coming
to life in the sunlight that filters
through spring green leaves
and limber branches, a brief
shining, an illumination of their
sheer wings. You place your hand
on my thigh and our eyes
fasten to one another. A look
I have practiced to hold, a fire,
a deep and long shining,
an illumination of my fair skin
until I too flower in this afternoon light.