Aubade

Warm mornings in winter glare,

Air rushing against

The sweat of too many blankets for two

Now on the tile floor.

Time turns slowly

But surely

Footsteps stick

Slick toes

Freshly frozen,

Window frosted in January snows ,

Moments when

Bodies beg to be close

To hold heat

Fleeting,

Incomplete until

The meeting of hands, hips

Wind-burnt lips

A tinge of cold, caught

In the fold of meeting