It's foggy
beyond the length of my hair;
	    her mouth pregnant with
words to say to me, and
her screams of labor
amounting barely to
a whisper, like the tuft of steam
from a child's nose
on a December morning.

She busies herself
	    steadily, her bones
unjointed; a machine
wrenching along pale-faced,     but still
anointed with perseverance.

Her eyes tinted glass, just
green enough to distort
the world, but clear
enough that I see
	    the voluptuous soul that
hides beneath her canopy lashes.
     Bravely, briefly, in love tonight.