Woken

I stood framed in your doorway,

arms like Samson side-to-side

braced against the collapse

of fragile resolve.

Warmth and apprehension

settled easily into my step

and when I finally reached you

I found I was holding my breath.

You were so peaceful

in your cloth cocoon

that when I touched, I touched gently

so as not to tear the fabric of dreams

or stretch the parameters of slumber.

Your body responded sans regard

for mind’s consent; extended

abeyant like a cat relaxed in mid-stretch.

How could I express my affection

as I reacquainted myself with

every muscle and bone?

Your body is

The tension of comfort and desire;

the final work of the author;

the masterpiece of the creator.

How could I help but savor?

Your hair was the color

of Niagara in the fall

when tannin-laden leaves

stain it autumn’s auburn,

still shower-wet beneath and for a moment

I was digging in damp soil after heavy rain

planting seeds of comfort in the rich earth;

I thanked God a thousand times in that moment.

And then your mind joined us,

slowly like an emerging Monarch,

and we spoke of the things

that had kept me awake.