A dreadful thrill
came up the hill
where you had slept for days.
In patient curls
you simply purred.
You listened so to wait.
Men surrounded
your empty bed,
but in your heart lacked haste.
Our fruit tree blushed
with blood and rust.
As you let out your breasts,
a grateful lull
came up the hill.
All weeping men around
took a pouch from
man’s powdered gun,
and bare feet kissed the ground.
A loosened string
allowed to sing
gives gifts of snow and calm.
And so our tree
ablaze with heat
could open up her palms.
So fell the fruit
on hill, and you.
Your breasts embraced each plum.
The cool hill blued;
all hearts were good.
Man hummed to string’s snow song.
