The forest is still, like a crouching beast, slowly seeping
in to our cells as a tranquil wild feeling,
behind the closed doors of our room mon amour
is busy in some secret ritual I suppose.
I am watching the dance of tangled trees
leaning over the veranda rails of the forest lodge,
door opened, she appeared, asked me in,
across her luscious *******, my name is written in brown,
I get the prompt, like all urban animals would,
lick the chocolate from  her perfect ******* down little by little,
and feel how each swell second by second
"Whatever you deem fit"she suggests, unambiguously
I saw desire dance wildly on her eyes, nature's prompt
I am a yogi, let me confess, my heart set
on the union on the highest level, that tempts
but the demands of here and now, can i reject?
all it says is this"Be a bhogi, seeker of sensual pleasure
as this moment is ripe for that, neglect it at your peril"
I am not  dogmatic though seeker of truth higher,
I have to get ripe more, now I understand,
I obey her, my sensual desire and the call of the moment
I won't fall as this is the truth at the level of flesh.

Perhaps it was her voice itself, clear and simple,
Unalloyed by any classically trained fol-de-rol,
Or possibly the nature of her faith
Displayed with such clarity, such transparency
By that very instrument,
But in any case, she had utterly bewitched the populace
Of the place known as Ahwaga by her distant cousins,
And when she stood on the Delaware & Hudson platform
The next morning, they had cheered her lustily,
All but begging her You must return to us,
But the train had lost its footing on a sharp grade
Mere hundreds of yards before making the station at Deposit,
And she was lost in the carnage and conflagration.
The townspeople she had said her farewells to that morning
Were distraught, their feelings a mix of grief
And an odd sense of culpability, a nagging misgiving
That perhaps this was an omen, some augury
Denoting that their own faith was not up to scratch,
And so they had taken her back to their own burgh
To bury her in a manner befitting her piety
(She had been travelling with siblings,
But they acquiesced to the plan, though how willingly
Not wholly apparent at the time,
And made no clearer through the ramble of time)
And so she was laid to rest in a plot
Surrounded by ornate fencing, her grave marked
By an obelisk pointing unambiguously to her Heaven,
And it is said that, on autumn evenings
When the breeze rustle the dying leaves just so,
You can hear the spirits of her Mohawk brethren
Come down from Quebec, murmuring songs
Telling of the spirits living in the trees and hedgerows,
Spoken in the ancient tongue
Of the languid, unhurried Susquehanna far below.