711. bejeweled of cardinal

(first draft)

Trev stood before the bedroom window and watched the snow fall, watched as branch and bough grew heavy and the ground wore its white cloak, bejeweled of cardinal brilliant. Why the smile, she asked, standing behind him, the softness of bosom nestled against the warmth of a back she had known only moments before by sweat and nail, by the curve of desire, as the wave above her shore gently lapping, of a warmness that comes only from the eyes, only from a touch, of fingers on fire in the mind with the lyrical parting of lips divine.

He reached behind, letting his hand trace the small of her back with a leisure afforded by lovers. And with eyes still fixed on the winter landscape sparkling of dawn rising, he said: because you are spring eternal in my eyes and autumn ripe in my hands. She pulled him tight, arms as rope mooring her vessel.

Come back to bed baby, said Em. Come walk my orchard. Pick my fruit. And then tell the gods they know not of nectar nor wine, that what is held in your eye with every breath of dewy sunrise is as heaven before the aged.

Several hours passed before words again were spoken.

__________

(second draft)

Trev stood before the bedroom window watching the snow fall, watching as branch and bough grew heavy, as pail laden arms and rounded shoulders bend toward the earth. Snow cloaked the ground in pristine white, the clean, pure whiteness of fresh snow, of flakes looking more like feathers than nature's crystalline tears. And as jewels, cardinals appeared, cold and hungry, by twos, it always seemed, like rubies on a king's ermine, their brilliant hue as red and alive as the blood coursing, of his and hers, of hearts called to the ear upon chest.

Why the smile, she asked, standing behind him, the softness of her mature bosom nestled against the warmth of his back, damp still as she had known only moments before by sweat and nail, by the curve of desire, as the wave above her shore gently lapping, of a warmness that comes only from the eyes, only from a touch, of fingers that dance in the mind with the lyrical parting of lips divine.

He reached behind, letting his hand trace the small of her back with the leisure of lovers lost in each other. And with eyes still fixed on the winter landscape sparkling of dawn rising, he said: because you are spring eternal in my eyes and autumn ripe in my hands.

She pulled him tight, arms as rope mooring his vessel. Come back to bed baby. Come walk my orchard. Pick my fruit. And then tell the gods they know not of nectar nor wine, that what is held in your eye with every breath of dewy sunrise is as heaven before the aged, as spring meadows before the bees.

Several hours passed before words again were spoken and what was spoken then was not of word or even of hand as much as eye full and bright and shinning with the urgency known only in love, when life itself feels alive in a way beyond parchment and letter, beyond even lyric and note--a language sui generis, a language of hearts, not of tongues.