The Red Snow

By Sophie Rouméas

Soaring in the morning,

the wave of her desire

is growing.

Her lover, however,

although very close,

does not yet suspect

the inner rubedo

contained in her

sacral lair.

She comes and goes

like a serene sunrise.

But within, her spirit

is boiling.

The fire grows

exponentially.

The center

is consumed,

even her heart is

playing with her,

accelerating

in synchronicity.

She is waiting for the moment.

Like nature,

who loves the roundness

of the cyclical element.

She delights in these intense instances,

the sensuality

she doesn’t immediately reveal

in her countenance,

not even in her sparkling eyes.

The moon above

continues her oracle.

From her temple,

she amplifies

the rising tides.

The lady slips into her red dress.

The offering cup fills up.

At nightfall, she will go,

offer a few drops of her essence

upon the immaculate white snow.

She takes her man’s hand—

the wave is at its peak.

Come.