Her Hands

Her Hands

They are in shade, now that she sits,
delected lazily and Summer tossed
beneath the willow tree.

Her hands that breeze you cool you when you are feverish
that liquify your flesh
that beat a dove wing thrum inside your throat
when cupped against your chest;

Her hands that sing your skin to dreams
that siren you to tilt your head against
their warming welcome press
against your hungry cheek;

Her hands that make you swallow hard
as they, when reaching out to you
stop suddenly to touch, to stroke your mouth, your hair,
to lay you bare and bear you up to her.

When will they come to light?