Joy V. Sheridan writes

Touch

He touched my cheek once

in the early morning mist

I was fit as star that shone

in the drift of the dawn

touched it, softly edged it

with a kiss from his lips

over the white scattered sheets

he dropped a line of love

no word – no, no word

just a pausing pass from a stranger

who glanced

at the image of myself

as it had been made

and I rode on rode on regardless

with the horses of the dawn

to the white and black star

to the middle of another dream

to that hand which touched me

invisibly

no word, just a soft trembling breath

that made me an ecstasy of the wild wind

and threw the lark high into its summer sky

his hand was light but I felt the touch

over the crumpled white sheets

and the miracle of love performed

between the sun and moon

stood stilly in my heart

He knelt slowly by the bedside

still touching

as I relived the comet’s fiery passage

through the heavens,

flying high with white swans

and golden sparrows and nightingales

that sang sweetly

the morning star was beautiful

dappling with splintering magical silver light

touching the green leaf, foliage

he put his fingers to his lips

slowly smiled

then touching the curve of the cheek

he lifted the crumpled sheet

and placed it over my body

he left slowly

like a ghost playing with a new-found toy

invisibility

I awoke as the door closed

and found the petals of a white rose

had been scattered on my breast

and the morning sang with multinous voice

a thousand nightingales calling

in the blue of the dawn.