When I finally return to you
having scaled the mountain of the day
you enfold my timbering frame
like six-hundred pairs of soft hands.
With your tiny twill thumbs
you press into tight muscles
tenderly teasing out their secrets—
those silent screams carried the day long
now gently carried out to sea
by a current of cotton.
Through the night
we whisper in wordless threads—
our bodies intertwined.
When I finally drift off to sleep,
my hand on your neck,
you stay awake listening
to my breath deepen.
In the morning, all you ask of me
is that I take you for a spin
then let you hang out
in the warmth of the spreading sun,
the wind rustling through your fine hair.
Copyright © 2019 by AJ Saur, from Particles in Motion (Murmuration Press).
Eighth Day Aches 