The Beauty Of a Woman

The Beauty of a woman is held
like her morning coffee,
in the poise and bend of wrist
and curled fingertips,

the strand of hair that falls and

bisects a cheekbone, unnoticed;

breathed in as the pause

and stretch to reach a lone rose

deep in a side street hedge;

in the flash of calf or glimpse

of thigh as she stops to right

her stockings, or stoops to smile

into the eyes of a child.

The beauty of a woman's heart

shines out; a flash from eyes

that light the way of change;

a wedding smile, a funeral hug,

a second's pause to touch a hand,

to kiss a brow, to run fingers

at the nape of troubled hair, or

to fix a fallen flower.

The beauty of a woman is carried

on shoulders, within encircled arms,

across hips that know pain and give

in blood and scream to bring forth life;

breasts and lips to nurture, to sing health

into the need to grow, to know;

her song, sweet milk of the soul,

her milk, sweet song of the flesh,

love and groomed instinct, Mother;

and the memories of lusty bliss,

and the spark of being

that comes, of the knowledge that loss

of such tender, fragile life is always close;

carried in bones' marrow, the nest, the place

of quiet, the hearth of love-light, glowing,

the promised heat of summer's return

held, ever against winter's bleak night.

The beauty of a woman

is curved and soft, firm and warm

in word and walk, in touch and slow breath

where in her silence she nurtures thought

of peace and the need to wait, and watch,

to be the turning and bloom of life into more;

transcendent of form, enlightened essence of

eons of continuance, creation;

where the limits of her strength,

the depths of her well of love,

the powers of her knowledge of life itself,

by her grace are ever undefined.

The beauty of a woman is known,

no claim can ever be

layed down upon her body,

no lien staked into her heart;

not age nor grief can corrupt

her sacred power, nor drain her of herself;

for she knows life, cycle, season;

her form the vessel which creates,

her soul the bridge connecting

existence and being;

her essence, an aphorism

through her, we touch eternity.