A hand glides over satin hills, 

Comes to rest on the summit,
Lingers, savors, contemplates,
Forgets time and place, becomes
Lost in sensation while birdsong
Whispers without, breeze chants
Harmony, surf acts the metronome.
There is patience, there is impatience.
A hand that is still cannot be still.
The summit rises and falls, sounds
Fall away until there is only the rush
Of breath, the intake, the exhalation,
The intake, the halt, the exhalation,
A rhythm beat in syncopation.
Autumn sun falls seaward, falls away

To dusk, to night, gives way to moonlight, 
Soft light revealing satin devoid of color,
But rich in shades of grey.  Outside—
A hint of cool.  Inside—no, what was
Temperate is no longer so. No, what
Was steady heartbeat is no longer so.

What is felt is given, what is given is felt.

Richness flows, an inland stream,
Salt-laced, delta bound, pulled
By this half-moon tide, pulled, willed,
Incanted by the song, the breeze, the surf.

In all there is softness, gentleness.

Half-light, last-light, gives way to love.

Half-light, last-light, gives way to sleep.