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.
I could.
I won’t.
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
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