She was without her Spring
seemingly born from childhood to only Winter Cold
and I was drawn to her for that reason, it seemed.

I'd hoped for a manufactured Autumn in her
from my own intense desire of it and that
could, by mere exposure, melt her glacial-ness
and she would then be unable to resist
the Fire I had in-born for her;
that mere proximity would set her  breasts afire
glaze her glassy eyes, make her breath in-drawn
by-passing her stony regard
over-coming the challenge she took for anyone to reach
her inside ice-berg which floated on what must
have been the Arctic Seas her Soul sailed.

I drew near, more confused as to my being
prey or preyed and she watched me in her mind's eye
advance my hand slightly to feign to touch her's by mistake,
ready to embrace or retreat and pretend it was all accident-
yet hoping, even if there was retreat, that a spark would ignite and breach
the contour between the hand offered and the frozen finger-tip, if only in repose.
 
These moments, I think-- a hand's touch, given or received
rejected or accepted-- can reel the curtain back on a promise
of more or reveal the door to slam and nothing gained.

I moved my finger close, not ready yet to risk the touch
looking for a sign to see if Affection's Beast would purr or pounce;
but it did neither and from my sense of her, she too had that
nervousness first encounter's make, entreaties in the yawl between
offered or given, smile or scowl, push away or grateful reach,
or better reciprocity.
We both were extended at the finger-tip; I then began to sense her cold ship
had a willingness to sail to warmer climes; softly bold, I lay my hand
atop hers
measuring pitchful signs of a ship; softly anchoring or a ship ready to cast moorings
for the comfort of the open Arctic sea again?

But overlapping warmth, mine to her's, she allowed-not withdrawing
and I took this from her, her first Spring bud;
all this
blooming from a finger's touch.