The mid-length flannel nightie
doesn’t help much,
when the bedroom door is opened, and
the chilling wind of the box fan,
the white noise of sleep,
on full blast, hits her knees and legs.

The usual gasp of shock,
the shudder from slightly freezing air,
slips off her form
as she rushes,
in the dark of backward clock-light,
to her side of the bed,
running her hand along
the bottom edge, checking
for his position, feeling
his solid quilted form.

In a shivering flash,
she slithers into the cocoon
of sheeted flesh, reaching,
first, with her cold feet,
contacting curved, lovely,
calf-hairy heat,
conducting and flowing,
chasing blue’s hues away,
insulating her cores flickering beat.

A groaning sigh
escapes her lips, as
she reaches her arm
to encircle his broad, strong
chest, her healthy hearth,
spooning with smooth finesse,
she sighs, again, with the pleasure
of harmonious, loving companionship,
and the guarantee
of a heated bed,
and warmed feet.

Erin Moen
3/18/03
Copyright 2003 ©

Erin Elizabeth Kelly-Moen
© Copyright 2008