When I said I'd dreamed
of snow,
the amateur Freudian holding office hours
at a table in the student union, quipped,
"Sex ... is like walking through knee-deep
snow.
You should try it; you'd like it."
"How could that be?" I mused.
For all I knew from steamy, thermodynamic
gropings in the darkened TV room
was heat--jungles, monsoons,
typhoons,internal primates shrieking;
bright birds flashing behind closed eyes.
In the thirty-some years since,
I've learned another truth. Not walking,
maybe, (Leave men to their brisk walks
and athletic jogs). For a woman it's more slow--
lying spread angelled, arms, legs moving,
drifting toward silence, eyes closing,
stars like soft flakes falling, a blizzard
brewing somewhere, nearer and nearer,
until I am lost in the white-out,
the storm that takes the lawn
leaving it virginal and voluptuous,
stretched soft, smooth and limitless--
into the surrounding dusk |
