On the other end of a Nordic line;
from lips
too long desired, I heard her arrival-day and time.
The icy-hot tone of her tongue, now gone;
the phone, still warm at my beeping ear;
I turn to thoughts of ‘soon into' stare- her face
far more fair than necessary;
bright and early in the coming year,
twirl in its rapture- her fiery-red, shiny head of hair;
all my worldly pleasures prepare, for whom
the Scandinavian driven snow
melts under the passions of her passing shadow.
Late, in a rumpled land of linen,
I lay wondering
when and where, was there ever a man so lucky
to have a lady like her.
