It was love language that they shared—the songs they played and loved, words and tones and melodies that returned them into memories, imaginings and dreams, and, too, into acute and attune of intimate’s present.
Warm spell came and lived in the week. It melted snow and erased the last of ice made of man’s pressures and passing traffic.
Weekend’s arrive, winter returned in cold and snow and hard-set of freeze from north.
In home in the woods, down cedar lane, hidden in the trees—they didn’t mind. They didn’t mind the set of cold, nor depths of the falling snow. Every form of nature’s deter, adversity to modern man that slowed and set in solation was security to the sanctuary, safeguard to their solitude of together-alone.
In hard set of cold and wind to walls, scratch of snow blown in billow through its fall and built in drifts to windblown faces and, too, in the still aired recesses behind, they stayed in home and built their fires stronger expanding inner heat and light, filled home and space of the two-heart fires.
Upon the laurel stove that held the second fire, she put a kettle on its top, quiet in begin of heat until low-singe sound of the starting boil.
To the sound, she rose from place in repose beside the hearth. He watched her rise. He watched her move away and into the shadows where, first sound of needle over vinyl spin scratched faint like kettle’s singe upon the stove.
He heard the notes, melody’s begin, deep baritone of voice:
“Let me be the one to stitch the white thread. All this back and forth got me spinnin’ in my head. It’s got me binded up and blind, what can I do? The only thing that makes sense is being next to you…”
Room and mood were changed.
In home, they no longer thought of winter. In music’s play, music’s sound, they were in a southern clime, southern state, with streetcars named Desire.
From the shadows, she returned with song, free sway of her loose night gown of deep and rich-shade red of streetcar hue.
Light of the hearth became richer, fuller, brighter in its swell and reach and follow of her in path.
Whistle of kettle, streetcar’s arrive, song playing still in spell and setting of minstrelled dream.
Smile of her face, down focus of her eyes as she poured the boiled water into holding of the cup, add of the mint, honey and cinnamon dash. Rise of her eyes, hold of the warmth, and return to him in place.
Fair of her body, apparition of summer’s freckles over shoulders’ slopes, spread of face, and dapple to high of her gown-shown breasts; spirit of summer’s and southern’s sun; heat in the room, strong and heavy like night air of the river city; thick and strong in holding to skin as full nights of strong-made love.
Deep beating of the hearts.
He took the drink, she joined beside, open-facing to the flame, bronze and copper capture of the light to freckles’ spread—whether true or dream imagined—as he drank of the sweet, warm taste that woke the tongue and warmed of body’s take.
Smile of face, speak of the eyes—stronger than the song.
He laid the mint tea cup aside.
He took her face in hands, kissed her strong in hearth’s full flame, heat of second heart strong too against is skin. His touch of her body, down draw of streetcar’s shade, white and summer freckled awe revealed; stronger beating of the heart, hearing of the song played and shared between their souls.
Holding, he guided her lower, roll of her body slow and controlled down to rug cover of the floor, plush of its thread in press to her back from his pressing of above; the take of her arms, take of her legs, whole bodies tight and close; heavy and humid of air’s surround; smooth and gentle of rhythm bounce and body jolts as they rode, bodies tight, streetcar’s start into the night.
_____
“So put another band-aid on this bullet wound. Pour us both another cup of that mint tea. Sit down by my side underneath the moon. Tell me why you’re so afraid of little ol’ me…Tell me why you’re so afraid of little ol’ me.”