She lies in the garden somewhere between delight and passivity
Soaking up sun like sweet cream against her skin
She breathes in the honeysuckle and the meadow-born fragrances
And though the life she has lived has made her hard on the outside
Thick and defended, a layer of skin and flesh that is marked
By doubt, regret and indiscretion
Inside, she is sweet
And the rays of the afternoon are hers to feed on because
She has the glow of her solitude
The goddess of utter abandonment
Who wants for no man, no company,
Save the whispers of the orchids
The melon knows not that she is anything but plant life like the rest
Summer goddess of the passing breeze
Like the rest
And the flowers do not disappoint
As everything else has in its way.
bohemian.on.rye 