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.