Tryfan

" To remember love after long sleep ; to turn again to poetry after a year in the market place, or to youth after resignation to drowsy and stiffening age ; to remember what once you thought life could hold, after telling over with muddied and calculating fingers what it has offered; this is music made after a long silence. The soul flexes its wings and, clumsy as any fledgling, tries the air again. I felt my way, groping back through the chords, for the passion that slept there ...."

Now the only things that vibrate
Are your wet fingers trembling on my ribs,
The howl of your name in my throat.