The port, dark and sweet, the swirling light of dance,
his loosened damp collar, her gray skirts, unfolding.
Wrists and hands, the need to touch.
The room rises and falls with their hastening breath.
Spring clutches the plum blossom,
the girl leaves her father for the marriage bed.
Behind pulled curtains,
he watches her undress, her body edged in darkness.
They breathe in the night fragrance of spruce and pine,
wild lupine.
Through half-shut eyes, she is calm and does not speak.
Under his hands, her heart,
like a bird's muffled flutter.
Skin hums, and slender thighs press closer.
Shadows walk above their heads.
They rustle and toss,
till light seeps through the window.
Still, they linger on the paling sheets,
halfway familiar, halfway strange.