Stepping back into the womb

The steps amid your countenance: a word I heard only in the Bible but the Good Book is awfully good at describing this kind if thing.

The atmosphere is candle light soft, embracing like candy floss and clearing like vinegar on glass. Swept, we look at you speaking, joking, mocking, chiding at the foolish minds that keep coming back at you, refusing to be told, lay down or soak up the ambrosia you're spilling from your orange hem.

You like to dress in the Indian way. Strange for a European, though I'm not sure we're able to consume this yet from a track suit or skirt and jacket combo.

Your acetylene torch gaze cuts my confusion, bewildering it to melt, daring it to be picked up or left to float extinguished.