Does anyone ever know
a woman who is in repose?
Sitting, still, she could be
the delight of her graceful ease,
or the stern belief
in her rigid silences.
Standing on the touching slenderness of her feet
she may call the poet who resides in us
to admiring comparisons to an ageless
But still be in the quiet arrest of her beauty,
a complete mystery.
In vain we read the elegance in her dress.
Vainer still are we
in reading poetry in the wind's playfulness
with her hair.
Perhaps we know her only
when the faint melancholy of her lips
suggests the sweetness of a smile -
a smile that perhaps is
the metaphor of her story,
or the first faint music
of a future she hopes to write.
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