On heels of satin,
In the blackest of night,
Away slips my bride,
The stars that I love.
And inch by inch,
Moment by moment,
Mile by mile,
and star by star,
Steals my awesome mistress,
Her power builds and churns,
as she nears me,
And my soul quivers in my skin
at her approach.
The wind is her slave,
and comes at her silent command.
Softly it begins,
Then increasing with stealthy speed,
Leaving my hair wild, unfettered.
She begins to speak,
Quietly at first; distantly.
She kisses me softly, moistly,
with the first tiny drops of passion.
But rapidly builds the lust of my mistress,
And soon I am drenched in her violent need.
She demands my obeisance
with electric displays of temper,
and I gladly give it.
Her whisper becomes the passionate cry
of a long neglected lover
echoing off the mountains
and slicing through the trees that surround me.
Unmoving, I experience her strength, her need,
And I am humbled.
And when, at last, she is sated, breathless,
“Until next time, my love,
There is no other,” I whisper.
She leaves me with a quiet kiss of rain.
And yet she knows,
I wrote this about a thunderstorm. While astronomy is my bride, the thunderstorm is my mistress. I have a love and passion for each, and yet the way I feel about them is as different as, well, a clear sky is to a thunderstorm.
It could be read otherwise, if you choose.