On This Great Plain - Poem by Eric Peters
On this great plain a gathering wind rises
from where the first hills touch the tall grass.
Bending beneath the sweet breath
Of this new lover,
It twists, then arches
Under those warm fingers.
The moments and the movements do not end
In sudden spasm
But continuing in a soft moan
And with anxious whispers
It holds its motion along the curve
Of a coming satisfaction.
On that same plain they stand above
The slender trees that lick the water's edge
Inside the ragged coulee.
Knowing only that its sighs
Have finally declined
And lost themselves between those hidden limbs,
They look back across the evening fields
To where the farm house stands,
Grey and shuttered.
Beyond, the hills stand quietly inhaling
The scattered remnants of the light.
And then, as if to smooth her hair,
She reaches up and quickly pulls
The silence of those hills]
Across the trembling in her heart.
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