Somehow
The sun had managed
To mount the stairs
Filling the space
With light
Running all around
The house since
She wasn’t wearing any leash
Or chain.

Duskily the slow early afternoon
Takes over the late morning, slaying
It softly and smooth, like the slipping
Of the shoulders, followed by the neck
And then the nape under the warm
Water; steam rising soothes. And the familiar
Grip of a hand on the arm, steady and assuring
And familiar, cannot dispel like the olive branch
The floods or famine or personal hell
Or contrived heaven but it can be proof
As the heat radiates from palm and curved
Fingers through the sweater through the skin
That something there indeed resides, hides, lives,
Thrives, and dies within.