Woman

Who are we with such privilege
to be made of petals and emotions.
We shade our selves and image
with colours and warm notions.
We ponder
on pale hues to gaudy design,
from head to toe, to paint and flower,
our desire to shine.
We don't need flowers, but we yearn for them.
Fantasize, yet always in realism.

Love our garments, silks, lace, in a closet too small.
Which do we match, mirror mirror on the wall,
I don't have anything to wear, I declare.
Which to choose, the blue or red I toss,
which accessories and cosmetic, the pinks to browns to gloss.
Frame the eyes with mascara and liner, to shadow smoke or natural?
Our crowning glory be neat or wild, to straighten or to curl?
Finally to match our selves from head to toes,
sandals, pumps, or wobble on stilettos,
we'll bear some pain for fashion;
add that handbag full of secrets we cannot mention.

What myriad choices, entitled and bestowed.
There is beauty within, such affection and powers.
With a gift we are endowed
that choice to birth, it is ours.
This is our station, joy and pain,
the choice of birth is not ours.
We are sunshine, we are rain.

To be love and loved,
to bear our children,
to colour the earth,
to be a woman.

(HA - 2009)