After, flame of passion-rose tempered back, restored again to cool and smooth of fair, white porcelain-pure. Outside, golden hearts from redbud fell in free before golden sun; flood of the room in morning’s light, suspend and paint of its form to motes in float—third spirit in the room.
In open lie, she combed with hand the sunlight ends of her waved, loose-fallen hair.
She mused on the light, it’s glory around, sight and mind in absorb of every fine-light detail.
“So this is love…” she thought, and willed to speak aloud. She stared on motes illumed and afloat, adrift in force of currents she could not see.
“So this is love…” she spoke again, closing eyes and seeing still room’s light and warmth, by sense, through lose; porcelain-pure of her open body gold-glowed in the living romance.