By Gala
Date: 30 October 2000
View of the Ridge
The hills of Virginia
gave way to Smokies
and it was there you built it---
a house modeled after my dream,
stout walls of log timber,
well sealed against the night chill,
a loft bed facing a windowed wall
so I could watch the mists rise
from the warm of your arms,
or listen to the fire crackle,
or the beat of your heart
when it whispered my name
while you slept, unaware.
No clocks there---
I would keep track of time
by counting the times
you crushed my lips to yours,
or held me close to your chest
or called me your love.
I want only a clawfoot tub
where I can lie in bubbles
and if you want to make me sigh,
perhaps you will read me poetry,
or perhaps I will stand behind you,
and loosen those shoulders
rub deep into your neck,
or simply trace my name
on your back
with the tip of my tongue.
You said the Smokies were a sacred place---
and so they are.
But I would bless god,
and the cosmos
from a tiny house
made snug by your love
every time I smelled the woodsmoke
or the tang of your skin
when you called my name
and it sounded like I love you.
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