The sun drips from her hips,

freckled fingertips.

Legs the shape of days,

wince beneath the weight of curled toes,

unburdened of a cold hardwood floor,

warmed as the sun seeps through the pores

of the window pane.

To pour upon the sheets,

to give to that which gives life.

Atop the bed begins the home,

when it is most memorable,

undone by what hands are capable of

as we lay in awe of September.

We are capable not as humans but lovers;

without words we are better.

To the house which stirs,

your sighs are pensive, not for the day,

but for the lascivious creatures we are.