I do not court disenchantment,
yet she is at the door.
I could shut her out,
close curtains, cut the lights,
sit in the furthest corner,
Pendleton wool covering my shoulders,
rocking back and forth.
Even the thought of it is soothing.
At the gesture of my open palm,
I wonder what she will do,
as she crosses the threshold.
I will not tighten my arms to my trembling torso,
but wrap them around her graceful waist,
usher her in with a ballroom twirl of surrender
to the mystery my teacher tells me to embrace.
(cc) Karen G. Johnston