Just looking out the window sometimes she felt him. The leaves seemed to move, just a fraction, just a tease of a ripple, enough for her to notice, then she felt the heat of the sun, the caress of big clouds, the birdsong – suddenly then she was enveloped in green, and her body was consumed with its own desire to combust, to share the very nature of its creation, a mammoth tropical wave leading the curve of her sensitivity, the peak of her physical joy a rush that would never be forgotten – until the next time. His hands guided her through the tangle of her everyday cares as she moved through this watery green and blue sensation full of sunlight which burst and sparkled and danced inside her as clearly as outside her boundaries of skin.
He smiled as he moved so smoothly, slowly, and she knew how once men felt they were gods. The power of such an altar at which to speak their desires, the cradle of mothers throughout time, and the warmth and fire of the woman whose life-giving gift consoled and frightened them. She was inviting his ceremonial power, his greatest sense of creation to join hers, to commingle, tadpoles discovering new life, cosmic soup stirring with thought forms announcing their presence.
When he put his hand on her breast with such tenderness, she felt warm inside. When their lips met, she took in his words, his thoughts, his breath, and they shared a rhythm they only had when together.
Some mornings awakening was this wonderful.
Other mornings, she rolled over to face the window, and he moved behind her, his arm encircling her waist. They mumbled good mornings and stayed silent, she staring into the sky beyond the window and he taking it in.
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