I linger passing the looking glass,
turn to survey
my nakedness still damp with bath,
to scrutinize this skin so many years mine.
A pink and supple womanhood,
each line and contour now eschewing
with a blurred eye, the fate of gravity,
My hand glides over a perfect navel still
cradling drops of perfume,
and I wonder at this figure’s passion,
its desires taken
and pleasures given
throughout its measured time.
An immodest perusal,
bare breast cupped within my hand,
a rounded stomach fingertips touch,
and legs stretched outward
weary of day and night dances,
reflecting back to me. . . image and memory.
Effigy and recollection,
and questions outstanding,
definitions paraphrasing this femininity
with terms too simple to credit
the swell of bosoms gladness
My purpose, unlike the image,
lost in revelry of the suckle
as both lover and mother.
I cannot resist
the intake of circumstance
with a momentous sigh
and obliging smile upon my lips
for long perhaps this oval mirror,
bound in deepest cherry,
will rest before me in sincere mockery
as years progression braid my legacy
tightly to the root of my graying weave.
It’s mimicry to capture each deepening furrow
that I shall trace in inquisition,
as I do now standing here,
silent and unadorned,
following the proportion and scheme of my hips.
I am amazed, as always in these discreet wanderings,
by the continued discrepancy
between mind and body,
and their oracles unrevealed to satisfy my thirst.
My undress, intensifies only
the indelible mystery and the passage of the hours
uniquely sculpted in this body of mine.
Mine …. nonetheless, to caress.
jeanne rené 6.05