By Lisa Shields
Date: 4 March 2001
Angel of The Ridge
Nearly outpaced the snow---
stepped from the car looked up
for just an instant
and those lacy flakes
hung from my hair like fancy ornaments
cut loose from a lace chandelier.
The door opens and you are there
and we don't need a word
just you there warm and near,
brushing the flakes loose
with a touch close to wonder.
When you speak,
you say one word---
Angel.
And in that moment,
I become one---
light glowing softly from my face,
a smile made just for you,
eyes shining---but serene.
I drop my bags,
head up to the loft
and find a sad old bathrobe
and a towel to dry this mop of mine.
I come downstairs to find not the russian tea
but cocoa in steaming mugs by the fire.
Breathe in the applewood logs
and just stare into the fireplace
warming---content.
You come up behind me---
one hand touching my shoulder
and I glance at you,
and oh---in your hand
a hairbrush.
We settle on the fluffy rug,
I lean back and sigh
and you begin,
soft strokes,
slowly taken to loosen the snarls
and I arch and make tiny sounds of contentment.
Just as I think it could not be more perfect,
you hand me the mug of cocoa to sip
and I am utterly replete.
My hair hangs satin smooth as a curtain,
your hand barely touching the strands
and when I look in your eyes
there is every touch
you have ever given me,
every kiss I have ever tasted,
and a world of love
I find only here in your arms
at the crest of the Smokies
in our cabin at the Ridge.
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