CHARRED

She sighs and mellows out, rolls her head towards the right and gazes through the victorian window nook, drapes open.

She slithers into the tub. The sunken two-person egg-shaped vasque reveals only the rim. Oil and emollients are arranged over the burled longleaf surround, totem-like. Wide-open heart pine floor stretches around, leather-like smell filling the air. She sighs and mellows out, rolls her head towards the right and gazes through the victorian window nook, drapes open. Past the porch, beyond the gravel drive, the bed of echinacea, and the river, her eyes come to rest upon the hemmed silhouette of oak treetops. Dear as a friend, her favorite, the leaning oak is soaked in warmth also: the sun sets right behind it early in the evening during the late summer months.

Leaving the weeds behind, her lover comes home to bathe with her. He joins in, a little sapped, as often he is at this time of the day. She hooks her legs around his waist and leans her torso upon his back. She rubs a little with the loofah and he moans. The water is hot, too hot; they are longing for it to cool. She thinks of honey taffies and wine later, by the hearth. Perhaps a little walk along the lake. She places her left cheek at the nape of his neck and glances back at the window once again. In this house, his farm, his jolly joy, she breathes well and they need not talk much. She is staring at the gleaming lit charred tree melting against the sun. Tomorrow, she thinks, I shall start to work on a new bedquilt.