Mystic charm

A brittle beam of sunlight broke against
the rolling mounds of pillows, quilt, and sheets.
Still half asleep, she turned as if she sensed
the tender edge where dreams and dawn would meet.

He felt her breath caress his cheek the way
she liked to brush a kiss across his lips—
to touch without a touch—to make him pray
for more and savor loving wine in sips.

Beneath the sheets, she reached toward his arm
and found his hand, then felt their fingers weave.
This bond of soul and flesh, this mystic charm,
made broken hearts once more in love believe.

He pulled her close, her head against his chest,
and pressed his face into her fragrant hair.
On him, her leg; against his heart, her breasts.
Within them both, a passion as a prayer.