Pleasure
Pleasure is not always bright—
not lambent days or roving nights.
It’s in the pause when work is accomplished,
a quiet breath, though we are famished.
Its warm tea cradled in your hands,
no need for words, no heavy mands.
A laugh that drips, a gaze that lingers,
soft moments are counted on my fingers.
It’s in being held without a zounds,
in holding things, my joy knew no bounds.
In someone knowing how you sense
before you speak—before it’s dense.
Pleasure comes, then float away,
like luminous glint at end of day.
You don’t give up —you invite it start,
a gentle visitant in the heart.
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