Ritual

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

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