rinsing

I'm sitting on the wood decking around the water courtyard-- the water flows beneath us, but in the wide square at our feet it's shallow and black against the bottom-- decayed leaves and mud, probably, but the water above clear. the person sitting beside me is covered in soapy foam-- it just sprouts spontaneously, or I suddenly see it. I begin scooping water by handfuls to stroke along the arms, rinsing the person's smooth skin clean while they sit still and patient for me to do this work-- it never occurs to me that they might rinse themselves-- it's a kind of care-full tribute. the arms go well, but when it comes to the face, I have to carry the cupped water such a distance and turn my hand at such an agle that most of the water slips away and it becomes little more than a caress along the the cheek and jawline-- in the gesture love grows.