Poem

The Wading Pool

My fingertips glide
down the spine
of her back,
a breeze over
a mountain range,
to the small
of her lower back
where my hand
can rest in silence
and contentment:
a wading pool,
toes in the slight
lapping of water,
then ankles
as the coolness
travels through
my salient being
and my bony knees
tremble, deep
in the softness
to my involved waist
that invites my desire
to succumb
to her larger body
of artwork.