Love Letter

Listening winds overhear my privacies spoken aloud (in your absence, but for your sake). When you, mustachioed, nutmeg-brown lotus, sit beside the Oberlin shoji. My thoughts are particular: of your light lips and hungry hands writing Tai Chi urgencies into my body. I leap, float, run to spring cool springs into your embrace. Then we match grace. This girl, neither feather nor fan, drifted and tossed. Oh, but then I had power. Power.