Soft Love Song

Daniel Thompson

My gentle lover with her tongue to the rain.

Her mouth carved into the minutes of the day.

Her form slinking into evening strings.

Her voice, the symphony of the cold woodwinds,

A sonata through the cypress below the spheres.

She is the revolution of the sumptuous air cycling,

In the halo of sun-streams, the glorious revolution.

She is firmness, rootedness, and husky depths.

She is the moment where tree meets ground.

She is the great garden, the ever-unfolding orchard,

The bloom of the orchid, the ocean of lantana,

A northern cardinal proceeding against the green.