Mornings I rise and watch her dress,
freshly showered and smelling much of something new.

But traces remain on the pillow,
fingerprints on the blouse’s blue buttons,

last chips of paint lining her cuticle.
Jays congregate on the window ledge.

Everything rains spring, even the warring clouds
cautiously approaching from the east.

The sky goes on living above them.
The frosted riverbed licks its lips.

O the moment when naked,
standing before the mirror, so I can see

simultaneously the direction of her nipples
and the slow curve of her back,

she slips on that gaudy gold ring
with its thin band of night.

by John Sibley Williams

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