She is ritual,
morning Sun ablation,
a touch of alabaster
to gesture to the artist.
Bending grace,
with fine, earthly features.
A whisper of lines here,
pitch softly
to the memories
of laughter
and tears
and joy.
There would be no concealing these,
nor would she try.
The ages earned
are worth the prices paid.
Eyes once bright
and hungry, curious, beautiful;
now rich,
and deep,
and dark,
liquid black sensual fire.
Quick,
like an obsidian blade,
when the line is pushed
and her smooth brow furrows,
but never in the morning light.
Bright fresh
and scented,
not of life in spades,
but existence in simplicity.
Field flowers
and citrus mists,
carry the mind back
to travels in the Old World;
a place where she
might easily be from.
Mirrors showing now
and now only,
the daily life
before the world beholds.
Everything in place,
not one thing perfect,
but perfect
in a symphony of flaws.
Bird song
through the window.
The smell of coffee
and her husband awake.
This day
will be graced to contain her.
A time even more special
for her there.
HG – 2019
