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Lone
White Dove
I
look at her, gaze at her
sitting
like Mary in the corner
of
the sofa
her
legs folded under,
her
pink fingernails shining,
her
soft brown hair
grazing
her neck and shoulders
like
cirrus clouds, white wisps
caressing
the edges of the world.
I
marvel that I still see
the
same beautiful girl
I
fell in love with three decades ago
and
have protected, cherished
and
worshipped as if she were
the
very last member of her species,
a
lone white dove clinging
with
her soft talons onto a ridge
of
a craggy mountain cliff
holding
back the impending storm.
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My
Wife Washing Her Hair
At
the kitchen sink,
in
her pajamas,
(thinly
disguising her lush body beneath)
bending
over, scrubbing the shampoo
into
her shiny hair,
her
eyes closed,
her
fingers rubbing her scalp
like
kneading dough,
then
a long rinse,
rinsing
the soap out before dabbing
conditioner
in, then rubbing again,
then
rinsing again,
wrapping
the towel around,
throwing
her head back
like
a mermaid
rising
from the foam of the surf,
turning
into the room towards me,
like
presenting herself
at
the Duke’s grand ball.
Been
a long time
since
I’ve witnessed anything
quite
so beautiful.
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Bare
Feet
My
wife in her bare feet is a beautiful, sexy thing,
she
kicks off her shoes firmly, or simply
steps
out of them easily, lightly, self-assured,
and
sweet, like a butterfly lifting silently
from
the center of a pretty yellow flower,
wafting
off into the sun.
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WORSHIP
“He
worships me,” she said
to
Linda, our oldest friend
from
high school.
“I
don’t know why
he
still does after being married
to
me for all these years,
but
he does.” She shrugs,
reaches
over and pats my hand.
And
I’m so happy
that
she sees my devotion, believes
it
and is not too embarrassed
to
state it out loud to someone else.
I
want her to feel worshipped
and
be happy about it,
not
unlike God expecting worship
from
his people and rewarding them
with
a special place in Heaven.
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forward
and back
I
went ballroom dancing last night with my wife. We’re
learning the samba now at the studio, one, one-two, one, one,
one-two, one, learning how to twirl and twist and do the Cuban
walk. But it’s hard for me to concentrate on positioning my
feet and holding my frame just right and tilting my head when all
I want to do is watch her move, watch her count and stare down at
our feet, her brow knitted slightly, her breath coming in little
bursts so sweetly, watch the movement of her waist and thighs and
hips to the left and the right, forward and back, forward and
back. She is a beautiful woman after all and I still have some
remnant of maleness so I’ve never lost my fascination for
her.
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