1944 (another land)

her warm weft of fingers
gently, lightly
weaved my hair
and in the weaving
wove something more
than the lace of
my lock
there was a kindness
a knowing
in her touch
full her fingers
of pulse
of everything
this war was not
and her eyes
as if in concert
as if conductor
watched my silky
warp
watched the loom
of her ministrations
and I thought
of her tender eyes
her blushed lips
the pertness of
a nose breathing
my breath
the glow of her skin
in the warm light
and I felt
as if
in another land