Whispers
by Ken Harnisch“You would not dissemble a young heart so
Yet still, that you do, sir,” she said to me
I of course replied, I would never, no
Nor would I use my guile so unsubtly
“ ‘Tis not unsubtle your guile, I know,”
She replied with a slow and breathy sigh
“It is your voice, brought soft and low
That raises mine so fluttery, high.”
Then I just smiled, holding her to me
To touch my lips to her flaxen hair
I spoke my words as a whispering bee
And let them float in her quivering ear
She moaned, in a sweet, chilled calamity
“O lord! What your whispers do to me.”
03/25/2003