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Solitude's hair-shirt sacrifice
longs
for finger-light touch of downy feathers,
aware of ripping talons and a frigid eye.
Wind swirls upwards,
leaves float gently, sidewalk-bound.
I am careful not to shake
the dirt from my boots
as I move my grounded body
from place to place.
Legs crossed, seated,
hands meet from
fingertip to bony fingertip.

Wait
for time's hands to pull the quilt back,
ease into this warmth of skin
like rolling in black mud,
surrounded
by bread dough comfort.
Kneaded soul,
transformed pliable soft and solid,
rock under shifting quicksand.

Wait.
Cover my body with
the spirals of my heart.
Gather myself into my own strong arms.
Light the fire
Pour the glass brimful
with ruby warmth.
Settle into comfort,
taste passion,
await your arrival.

I know you'll be late.