I understand metal and fire, light and crystal, but the soft things elude me. The sponge, held in a beloved’s hand, sluices the grime from the forge off my chest. I tremble from other than chill, heat erupting under tender ministrations; gentle fingers run the towel over the curves of my body. What is this unbounded, inexhaustible power that she has? We have sons – tall, proud sons – and still the copper strands of her hair weave their net around my heart and her soft eyes plead. I know that look. Another child? I am lost in her softness, and agree.