QUERY

So soon...How soon!
She has lain with you
And touched your face
And perhaps,
A tender part of your soul, as well.

The cadence in her chest suggests
She houses the percussion of a symphony
Or else
The figures of The Nutcracker
Pirouetting two feet off the floor.

Her being sings with your newness
She does not want to lose the vibrations that shake her alive. Alive!

And yet, the beat begins to still in fear
And the dance begins to down-wind in doubt
And the song falters. For she has not heard from you.

Can you tell her, please, if she has cause to clang the cymbals
And whirl and twirl in joy
And allow her heart to harmonize?

Can you tell her, please?