The front showed in bands across the western sky, cream wisp of clouds above shadow underside of storm, their contrast lighted sharp by the rising eastern sun.  Sky weighed cool and damp with the scent of humus—spring’s living earth disturbed, trodden, and cloven between hooves into mud beneath ranging cattle—holding in its air. 

          The fields would not work.

          Ryan remained indoors, resting by an opened window.  He peeled an orange by hand as he stared on approaching front.  His touch penetrated the fruit at softest point, peeling and exposing the sweetness of flesh within, citrus scent rising and mixing with that of living earth.  The fruit was cool and sweet to tongue, and resting in an enjoyment, she came to him.

        She came to him in robe that fell in like gentleness with rain, and through the letting of the sky, they made love in a holding warmth; rhythmic, breathing, keeping, building, changing, holding, lasting, breaking, after-peace in crescendo with wave and wane of the soft spring storm in sky.  They built with rising storm—thunder and echoes sounding through flesh; bodies keeping, holding, fighting, breaking, falling after into gentleness and heavens’ afterglow: lived wonder in window of a moment before wave and storm returned to veil light of after-inspiration.

           To the waves of spring’s letting, again and again, they made love; and in the after of their storm, she shone in radiant wonder like blossom in new sun—fecund, verdant and pure—inspiration emanant new-made life.

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