her golden skin in evening light,
sun-drenched and waiting to be touched
and reassured of what is right;
this tender moment won’t be rushed
a nightingale just waking up
has songs she may be free to share;
but never all at once, with much
held in reserve, the notes kept spare
a creature of the night and of
the earth, and yet she does not fear
the sun, nor turn away its love,
she lets it kiss her hair, her ears,
her neck, and as it warms her flesh
she starts to shudder as if chilled,
and wishes to at last possess
the one who makes her feel fulfilled
