The Touch — for Naomi

by Frank Judge

I can't help but watch
the quiet woman who
removes the peach
sunglasses and
stares across
the field of
afternoon picnickers
at some middle distance
of thought before
turning slowly into my eyes.
She blushes and smiles
the nervous smile of
discovery and admission.
The day suddenly slows
as she cradles an elbow
with one hand, her other
resting languidly against
a breast, punctuating
idle conversations,
themselves punctuated
with elegant tosses
of hair and sidelong
glances that fall
tenderly but firmly
against my lips
and cheeks.
She glides near, a
hand brushing mine
in deliberate casualness.
A mere three heartbeats.
For an instant a spark flashes

The world glimmers in
her blue eyes, the blue
lights of boats passing
in the violet distance.
I've known women,
but never a touch
soft and sure and pure
as the bay breeze and
the scent of tomorrow.
And in that diamond
night of the void moon
I feel her melting
through my skin
and break into a
smile in my heart
We breathe in
each other's words
at last, love
and inspiration
resting on so much
and so little.

Frank Judge is a Rochester, NY-based poet, writer and editor. He publishes and edits Exit Online, a Journal of the Arts