Her Name Her Need If the whisper in the wind Could be heard Would it be her name? If the sigh that breezes by Could be understood Would it be the call she needs? At the old tree on The edge of the clearing, She waits for a moment Of wonder. A woman made Of marble. Stone uncaring. Frozen on a pedestal Kept there past desire. The air grows ever Colder and the grass Turns brittle, As winter moves on. Her robes of white frost, Do not stir in the storm, That blows from the north. Her heart is ice that awaits The spring. The snow drifts and eddies, Clinging to her limbs. She listens for the call with Frozen tears upon an Alabaster cheek. If the whisper in the wind Could be heard Would it be her name? If the sigh that breezes by Could be understood Would it be the call she needs? She feels it in the land At first, beneath her stiffened Limbs, a warming that brings An aching, of desire, stirring Into fire. Upon her face her tears do Fall, striking upon her breast, To sink within, to break the ice Around her frozen heart. Beneath the tree The wind does stir, its Gentle touch, a breath that Softly kisses her dampened Cheek with a lovers caress For its whisper carries her Name and the gusting Breeze has screamed Her need to the world To live. Julie

Poems