Soft Touch

by Richard Hartwell

Outside, the faint light of false dawn
Illumines only silhouettes of trees,
Terrestrial objects cast no shadows.

Stars dim. Moon settles down.
True dawn’s second light is a
Different tone, an ethereal glow.

As such, it creeps into the room,
Stealthily snuggling against
Bedroom objects now backlit.

Objects, including her, outlined
Against the balcony window.
Sitting here, tilting forward on

Two legs in the plastic patio chair,
To reach the hills of her nude hips,
To traverse the hollows of her ribs,

Fewer than mine but so much more,
I use the tips of my fingers to tantalize
Her body, brushing the backs of her legs,

Raising the surface rouge of her flesh.
I can’t see this but I know marks are there.
Thirty-six years, but I also notice the

Quiverings on the surface of her flesh,
Tactile telltales. I don’t need to hear low
Gutteral moans that used to escape her,

Moans I assumed of deep pleasure.
It seems so little to provide, now,
After three-and-a-half decades;

Appreciation shown too late, too little,
But humbly accepted for all that. I continue
Undiminished to caress the heated hills.

Perhaps it’s me; or, perhaps, the
Slanted shafts of morning sun
Breaking through the trees.