Winter’s on the        tip               of          our                                      tongues. Frost speaks        (the ancient language)                        of                                 ice               and                                    ...

On the night the stars were born I made love to you. I filled you with desire, hope, tender embrace. The moon shone her light of graceful hope into your eyes and I gathered you in my arms. ©Rebecca Cavender

Dance, dance, dance. Spin your ecstasy in Union. Hear the call of your heart; the drums of your feet, tapping the floor, an echo of remembrance, singing you home. Dance, dance, dance. Whirl into your cosmic body, your electric field of transmutation: Galaxies alight...

Find the center of mourning. Gently press your palm upon it. Hear its sharp rhythm, its slicing moan, its cry of release —Even when you feel the scrape of humanity etching hurt across division lines —Even when your body reveals fallow aches, secrets buried in plain...

I see that slight curl of your lips mischievous and coy. I see the glimpse of arousal in your eyes, Bright with Fire. I hear the way your tongue curls in a languid hiss wanting yearning. I feel the desire on your hands and collapse to my knees. ©Rebecca Cavender

You light the fire of my heart: tender and warm, a flame to be reconciled.  Do you open yourself to the splendor of possibilities,  the rapturous heat awaiting you? You speak in tongues and whispers, fingertips and salt.  In between, a silence: then crack  like frozen...

There’s a wild in the river’s rush: crystal ice melted from hard-working glaciers, stone and dust. They’re in a hurry to meet the fjords: the howling wind welcomes them home. ©Rebeca Cavender