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.