“Behold my beloved speaketh to me: Arise, make haste, my love, my dove, my beautiful one and come. For winter is now past, the rain is over and gone. The flowers have appeared in our land, the time of pruning is come…The fig tree hath put forth her green figs: the vines in flower yield their sweet smell. Arise, my love, my beautiful one, and come…til the day break and the shadows retire.”[i]
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White and red and thread of orange that made the sweater glow, it was one of spirit more for spring than winter or the fall. Warm in color, cool in make, loose plait of thread letting warmth escape, she wore it then in season and its spirit.
Loose and billow of its covered body’s high and long of its fall hid over lap as bare of legs shone beneath in fold over sofa’s rest as she read from leather book and gold-leafed page in framing light of the morning sun.
She wore sweater with grace and little more. Cool of the room and warm of the sun in gold-morning way painted paradox to sight and sense of skin—risen dimples from the cool across her open legs, then smoothed back in sunlight’s warmth and touch across their folded length; effect of the sun as sweater to skin, warmed and awakened in touch of the bare to caress of billow and light of the plaited weave.
From rest to collar, she touched to necklace, its metal chain, delicate and fine. Reading, she raised it to her parted mouth, cool of the metal warming fast in touch to plush of her bottom lip, slide of the pendant across necklace strand drawing sharp the tensioned line of chain into tender swell and sensing of her lip.
She liked the feel, and she soothed in its sense and light of play as she read and mused further on in message of the Word.
“Thy cheeks are beautiful as the turtledove’s, they neck as jewels. We will make thee chains of gold, inlaid with silver…A bundle of myrrh is my beloved to me, he shall abide between my breasts…Behold thou art fair, my beloved, and comely. Our bed is flourishing…I am the flower of the field, and the lily of the valley. As the lily among thorns, so is my love among the daughters. As the apple tree among the trees of the woods, so is my beloved among the sons. I sat down under his shadow, whom I desired…”[ii]
Low stir, beginning, pang of the want: spirit moved, affected of the Word.
Mind from page, she turned to him, his notice and eyes and adore in sign and hold from across the room.
Warm-chill not of the sun, flashed high through spine and lasted in linger of tingle in nerves in extremities and ends. She felt them then, affected, to cover-loose of the sweater’s thread.
His attention, his eyes, unbroken—coy—she looked away.
Sharpen of her covered shaping, stronger of the sense.
“…How beautiful are thy breasts, my sister, my spouse! thy breasts are more beautiful than wine, and the sweet smell of thy ointments above all aromatic spices. Thy lips, my spouse, are as a dropping honeycomb, honey and milk are under thy tongue; and the smell of thy garments, as the smell of frankincense…”[iii]
Stir in the room, warmth-chill again that made her more alive; scent of her skin and sweater’s fresh aromatic and expanding reach through air around.
Mind from page, eyes from him, she looked then to the gold of sun; fingers’ toy to pendant still, its play a sensed pleasantness of lined press to supple lip.
She desired then the Living Word. She desired Song of Songs:
She desired him in the sunlight—over sofa’s place; her body moved from folded lie, brought to hands and knees—in pose, sweater’s loose in hang beneath; his hands through the space between, sweater raised high, its loose-pleat cover still to arms and cover of high-back, its under lifted, raised—her bared—its plush and colored loose in bundled near to necklace-hang; arc of her back, raise of her head to low and fall of his—his face into her hair, breathing deep her scent, then its waved loose drawn to side; new sense—kiss’ warmth upon neck’s open line; his take of her into hold, freed fall of beneath cradled and held, pressed between body and hand; deep of her sigh, soft of her rock, intimate beginning of their way; back’s further arc to flirt of sense—strong-firm to delicate’s wait; her pressing back; his forward to; slow, smooth, matching of their meet.
Alone in home, together in light—fit and matched in lover’s make—sweater’s high, her open-free lifted and cradled from beneath; breathing, making, loving—warmth of her skin, sweater’s fresh and a new love scent—both facing toward the sun: one in the Living Word, one in the Song of Songs, in whole of spirits’ sing.
[i] Canticle of Canticles (Douay-Rheims) 2: 10-13, 17
[ii] Cantle of Canticles 1: 9-10, 11, 14-2: 1-3
[iii] Canticle of Canticles 4: 10-11