In her kitchen bathed in yellow noon
She toils alone, with whisk and wooden spoon
Blue riband-winning sponges gently swelling
In the heat, two tender mounds, compelling.
Watching them in silent lonely pleasure
Reaching dreamily for knife and measure
Slowly, gently, lovingly swirling cream
On cresting surfaces in heated dreams.

In her study, bathed in amber light
She trims the knotted stems of flowers just right
To ease them slowly into vessels waiting
Moisture filled and open, supplicating.
Controlling every entry’s gentle slide
Softly probing, making room inside.
Until a drop of moisture wells and falls
Lubricating lustrous glassy walls.

In the evening, bathed in violet glow,
She knits for orphaned babies, row on row.
Tight pressed stitches, closed like swollen lips,
Poised to part on questing fingertips.
Pliant downy entrances awaiting
Urgent rhythmic thrusting, unabating,
Ever faster, ‘til she stops and sighs
Reclining, spent, and closing slumberous eyes.

In her bedroom, bathed in silvery night
She wears a filmy negligee, in white.
Settles on the bed with heartbeat racing
Her hand drifts slowly downward, searching, tracing.
Feeling for the source of nightly pleasure,
She sighs as trembling fingers find their treasure.
Pressing firmly in that special place -
Tonight will it be Friends….or Will and Grace.