In your arms,
the quaking of heart stops,
breath finds its river flow,
rolling belly stills in surrender,
and muscles tensed for action,
tired from constant readiness, dissolve
in ambient warmth.
In this shelter,
the ticking clock no longer sounds,
its meaning lost, forgotten.
Morning birdsong becomes
the vertical light becomes
the first star of black opening night.
Let us linger here forever…
Thankfully, Beloved,
that’s all the time we have.

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