She is, dismissed by men her age who
Gaze hungrily at girls their daughter’s age like
Wolves without pelts, urging toward light
Perhaps they think youth will keep them steady, as age creeps into their veins
But their heads, empty yet, of the carousel of experience
Her soft skin does not reflect the many places she will inhabit
A wisdom in her eyes will more than compensate for any lines
As they draw together in laughter and back again with the sketch of time
She may
Lament her losses but surely not regret the gain
Of a certain suppleness of mind
Hers will one day be, the confidence found over fifty winter’s more
She draws you in with her knowing, like familiar shore
It would be her bursting chest of pressed flowers, against my own, making greater indent of memory
Not a fledgling bird nor snared fox but the beauty of a falcon, gazing into distance
Her love would be measured then blown about the room in spirit form
To chase my wonder of her self possession
She stands in a gown looking out and I see
A bead of sweat we made, caught on her neck like a pearl
Even as I touch her she is untouchable, for her strength
Was forged in deep water and honed over the years like a well turned bell
Can be clearly heard, ringing us towards her
Back still straight and the scars of her living like jewels
She has brought life, she has survived beyond herself and the low imprint of convention
Free of such empty things she is now a lover released from expectation
To be at last
Herself
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I knew it when
TheFeatheredSleep 