Fingers of Dawn

The furtive fingers of dawn filter
through our open bedroom windows
to linger caressingly upon your sleeping
form, warm and comforting beside me.
You've thrown off the lightly draped
sheet, seeking stray coolness of any
wisp of fresh air that might ruffle
through on the moist, overheated
atmosphere of a late-summer night.

My gaze is drawn to your gently
illuminated face, cheekbones and
nose outlined in shadow and light. The
curve of your chest, rising in steady
respiration, the softly emphatic grace
of your arms, your shoulders, sturdy neck,
and hands crossed so casually over chest,
fingers curved in a suggestion of their
purposeful day-time manipulation of
hammer and saw, mower and spade.

The ambient light, mild gold and yet
gracious enough to withhold the
oppressive heat of the coming day,
sketches you in detailed strokes of
lively muscle and well-toned skin
though your beard is grey. Dawn's
waking light casts its glow, delineating
and illuminating the one who has lain
beside me for near to sixty years.