Warm in my bed,
two feather quilts a snow-drift
of envelopment,
a gelato scoop of muted bedclothes
as if iglooed in pastels,
as if fussing hen had tutting, settled,
tucking fidgeting chick - deep
beneath dandelion-down.
Cold fingers
that had dared adventure, dared brave
the Himalaya of patterned quilt cover,
now, gratefully return.
Their icy tips skate shivers cross my skin,
fissuring my drowsing, pleasantly
and so, I begin the opening,
the welcoming,
the REM-like heart-beating
that anticipates
our love-making, dear.
YOU ARE READING
Borealis Love
PoetryLove - what does that word mean, what does it comprise? Do we always recognise it when faced with it? Do we value it when we ought to do so? Do we squander it when it is too easily given? Do we ever understand until it has left us and we are left to...
