at the end of fingertips,
in rhythm with each exhalation.
Every stroke an exultation:
a waltz, a samba – – – rock and roll.
Drumbeats invade all senses.
A smile indexed,
not misfiled in memory.
The rooms cloaked in a breeze as you stroll by,
fetch from the zephyrs on your morning walk,
Lips taste of cinnamon and butter.