Quiet Sunday, coffee in hand, both dressed and covered in robes of fleece that warmed in soft the open of their underbodies, at rest in solace and silence at island in heart of their home, she asked, “What are you thinking?”
He smiled.
“I think you’re beautiful in the morning sun.”
She warmed. She blushed. Smile brightened in her eyes.
“What else?”
His mind was in other place.
“I’m thinking of warmer weather, us back into gardens again. I’m thinking of broken earth and full of sun on plot beside the metal shed, us working the ground, us planting the seeds, dirt under nails and over our hands, scent of humus and our sweat—is that weird?”
Lips in smile matched her eyes, widening and brightening to his tell.
“Even if it is, I like and think it too…”
“I’m thinking of the feel of season’s first sunburn, the one that tinges and tones into a tan and not too strong of burn that peels and starts again—freckles again over all of you…”
He smiled and laughed, gentle and light, merry in muse and spring’s remember.
He told on, “I’m thinking of you in your straw sunhat, sundress’ move loose about your body—the sandals or bare of your feet…
I’m thinking on how the sun sets and the hope we will feel in begin of new season again; to hold to your warmth in rest on my lap as night sky turns to cool.
Then turning in, door closed behind, lower and gentler fire in the hearth; undressing from our labor clothes, naked with you in the open; scent of the humus, scent of our sweat—neither of us caring; to hold you and kiss you and lead you to low and open of the floor; to love you before the hearth, you in nothing but your straw sunhat…”
Both felt a flush. Both felt a heat. January’s snow was gone.
Both were ready for the spring.