The wind has shifted



The wind has shifted to the north

Your flaming body burns me in dream

My lips caress your burning breasts

My tongue your thighs. . .

But the wind has shifted to the north



I wake to chip ice from the upper deck

for canvassing, for the day dawns clear at last.

Bruce and Duncan freeze their fingers

stretching wet canvas in the hard north wind

(My fingers burn to touch your soft-furred sex,

My tongue melts with longing to taste your woman's honey)



Finally it is done.  The seams you sewed so straight

stretched overhead, freezing already in

the cold of late afternoon.



By my hand may you be protected

from all storms

save the firestorm of my passion

for you.