Your hands steal the sun from the sky,
planting it beneath my breast,
where it pulses in languid light.
The wind cannot dislodge your subtle touch
from the nape of my neck,
where it lingers in truth.
Songs of birds are but murmurs now,
distracted by your warmth.
Wildflowers rise, then fall in surrender,
their meadows subdued
by your whispering hands.
Moments escape with a fragile tithing,
memory's slow glance upon the wilderness.