My Woman

It is not the arch of her back,
nor the motion she puts in her spine,
it is not the endless river flowing black
from her head into curls and unto vines
Nay! there is more to my love, my only woman,
so much more that makes her so fine,
to the peace in my eyes, she is an omen,
and for the rest of my soul, she is mine,
She is more than the embrace in the night,
more than the touch of pure grace,
more than a silhouette in the creeping light,
every morning her neck and her face
and the scent of her previous twilight,
she is more, my woman, my queen,
so much more than just earthly delight,
she is where my sanctity has been.
The mother of my child, though I’d rather
the companion of my many warm noons,
and the leaves of summer that we gather,
dry in the soft sunlight of our June,
though what makes her so special, so perfect to me,
is how she is willing to lie,
that I am her only one, although I can see,
the tears that she wipes from her eyes.

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