Wednesday, September 5, 2012

Morning Dance

It's time for our secret early hour ritual
Donned in bathrobes and the scent of fabric softener
I hear the stiff crinkle of the pages of our worn book
As I worm my way into your lap.
Your circus-like juggling act of coffee, books, and cigarettes
Always eluded tiny hands dropping objects to large to fit their grasp.
But your hand manages to make its way to mine.
Mine... half its size, is enveloped by your glove.
I find it odd how much security and comfort can be found
In the way your hand wraps around mine.

I inhale the bitter but fresh aroma wafting from the coffee mug in your left hand
As your right hand softly dances to find the dog eared page
So customary to our morning retreat

You take a sip of coffee and exhale
My head nestles into your chest  and I can hear your heartbeat
I take a moment to relish the aroma of mountain and pine, sighing from your skin,
Urging me to nuzzle closer.

Zara the Bather, you announce in a tone that would make Hugo proud.
As you begin my ear searches for that perfect spot
Filled with rich baritone vibrato and the steady drumbeat of your voice.
Once found, I melt into you and let the rhythm, the musicality, our composition overtake me.

And I discover,  I am home.