Is it the wind within the tree
I hear whispers, hums,
Soft romantic symphonies?
Just a little distance,
Beyond, perhaps primal,
Before spoken words?
High notes sung forth,
By a wildly beating heart,
Sighs too soft, but soon.
Next to gasp, then moan,
Now but wisp of breath,
For lack of lover's touch.
Fingers make music,
Turn touch to song,
Sigh to gasp to moan.
Donovan Baldwin