ManicDDaily

Certain Sounds in a Place of Mountains, Stream, Pond–

The murmur of a stream too far to be sure
we hear it,
the murmur of frogs exchanging night
in deep-throated gulps that would seem rude
if they were not frogs, all throat
but for eyes/legs–

the murmur of our own legs,
the murmur of the sheet that is
their night,
the murmur of stretch and fold, and the murmur
of knees meeting,
the caps of mine cupped
by the backs of yours,
or your caps cupped
by mine.

The murmur that is purple, truly mauve (neoned)
that is the shade sheets make of night
about our knees,
the murmur of sweat needing
to bead and sweat beading
and the murmur of the weave of those beads, the braiding
of limbs
and intention–

the murmur of your mouth, silent,
the murmur of mine, not,

the murmur we can hardly hear
for the thrummed beading,
the murmur of the heart’s throat beating,
the murmur of the cold night air
unsheeted–

the murmur of eyes that know me, yet each time find me new,
the hush of mine not quite believing what you find,
the murmur of the heart that hushes
even as it does believe,
the murmur of the stream.

*******************

A poem of sorts written for Grace’s (everyday amazin‘) prompt on Real Toads to write something inspired by an Australian poet, Judith Wright.  I was thinking of Wright’s poem “Woman to Man,” but honestly, I feel like this could be Woman to Woman or Man to Man, so did not want to use that title.  

The pic is a photograph of a small watercolor piece made by my husband, Jason Martin, of a nearby stream with trout.