Monday, March 15, 2010


This one was especially difficult to write.


They say age is just a number
And a title is no more than the responsibility it entails,
So how could it possibly matter,
That she has two children fast asleep on the couch
And a husband
who likes to put his feet up on the coffee table after a long day of work
When it is she who wears the pants in the family
Not to mention the skirt, too.
She lets down her hair
Allowing it to sweep against her upper back
and it’s a magical sight to say the least
She goes to speak
and leaves me breathless in the process
unaware that she can placate the raging waters of my mind
with just a single word
Her smell is enticing
and I cant help but crave haven
between the lengths of her arms
Upon this laughter we share
She physically lifts my spirit up out of its body
and into the warmth of the bright blue skies
For a mother,
a wife,
is but first a woman,
deserving of love, and lust,
respect and sheer admiration
no matter the cost
no matter the source
and years might as well be
the number of freckles
kissed up onto her by the sun
or a sum of facts and useless know-how
amounting to zero knowledge
about the true meaning of our world
instead of a rusty old number
that we refer to as age.

1 comment:

  1. This is really a great poem! Beautifully written.