Anne

The wind whispers down to the
frozen lake, where swans arch
their graceful necks, snowy white.
The wind whispers into the candlelit
place, where the kiss presses down upon
the skin below the jaw, smooth and warm.
The wind whispers through the busy
streets, along the hurrying, restless, straining
necks. The wind, the wind, it whispers, it
whispers, up to the wooden block, up past
the simple bodice, and down, down,
down upon the pale, clear neck.