She stands before me,
waving the scent of winter
off of her clothes
and into the anxious enclosure
of our living room.
(In the daylight hours
when I am here
and she is there:
it becomes a waiting room.)
What can my hands say
but hello
when my eyes yell
in bubbling delight
as her hat flops off
and the sight of her
matted red hair
douses me with the knowledge
of her hearth-like skin
and the unequaled heart-stir
of her subdued nuclear smile.
hm. i think it gets stronger as it goes. the last stanza in particular. i think the reuse of "room" seems a bit out of place. other than, god, how to love that feeling, non?
