paleographic fingers

The day dawns hushed of wind and the lake mirror smooth in reflection, silent of thought. He sits bare of shirt, the shadow of muscle taut in youth, her paleographic fingers vestigial, as too her scent. She sleeps content of face washed in morning light, only breath heard between muted birds. Each breath, of them taken, of bed warm, of pillow embraced of his shape, perfumed of his hair. To each, these thoughts, held often in the quiet of sunset or the rising of cups, sometimes the movement of pot and pan, the placing of plates before silver gleaming of candlelight. To this place of peace, walking the greens, flowered paths in witnessed hue, those quiet feet in step, the small movement of fingers touching, of looks stolen, of smiles surrendered and kisses exchanged. There is an energy in love that attracts, a naturalness that defies, a fit without effort or plan; and known it is not in proclamation, in that distant, diluted language, but in what is neither heard nor seen as much as experienced beyond the thinking mind, a language of birth, lost in age, and rarely found again.

Her eyes open blue, among rivers of time as memory is released as flowers to the sea. Toes bare of what was, together are dipped in the cleansing of passing seconds and allowed to flow into minutes and hours, never held as much as swam, no more owned than one owns the ocean. And too upon sight, a smile not asked, expresses what cannot be taken but only given, a simple gesture that touches the envy of fingers. Soon, the sound of sheets, of cotton woven of other hands as some body of white parting in the quiet whisper of reach, of flesh still warm of sleep, still tender in want, need. There is leaning and parting and what was dry, now wet, what was missing, now joined, what was needed, as water to root, rained freely, one upon the other.