Winter always comes in her own good time, oblivious to solstice, confining you to kitchen.
You let the stove do its work, warming the whole downstairs, the scent of clove and allspice, become odors of love.
And the bed? What of it? Do we aspire to a tableau vivant of carnality or cuddle and caress in a down paradise?
And as my naked self presses into your naked self, are we ready for this August baby?