Allan Wargon's My Sister, My Bride

Lying near the ridge we can see across the valley,
To where it rises above the forest and becomes rolling fields.
Overhead the sky is blue beyond branches of lacy pine,
our horses are quietly nosing and nibbling in the rustling grass,
and off to the side an insect buzzes, flies on, and doubles back.
I kiss my bride and stroke her shoulder and cheek.
Her head is pillowed on her jacket; I slide my fingers to her breasts,
undo the front-fastened brassiere, then the final buttons of her blouse.
You won’t be cold? I say.
Oh no! I’m too warm. And she whispers: I’d like it, please.
I unfasten what is left and she shakes herself loose
and lies there, amid her clothes, in our dry sheltered spot,
surrounded by wide drifts of moist and melting snow.
She is I think too lovely to touch, like food too nice to eat.
But she reaches for my shirt and tugs at it,
and I undress and take her, reverently, into my arms.
When we are joined we lie still for a long while in the sun.
And I feel that this might be the ultimate experience,
this feeling of being one, of rooting into the earth,
of being part of the whole pulsating universe.