My mother and friends will tell me it’s a silly question, but is it? And what is the answer I’m looking for?
I know the way my hair, in russet mantle clad, springs down my back is pleasing to the eye (at least to mine).
I know the way my tall figure—yet not like a statue or a pillar— asserts itself into the open air, similar to a curved vase—at times smiling, at times the sudden night.
My hands, perfect for piano playing as grandpa always said, are long stalks of wheat that reach toward heaven, wait- ing to be reaped.
My eyes, green when choleric and hazel when stable, are the exclamation points and periods of my face—who could interpret my action-prose without them?
And my face… my face…what do I think of you?
Are you pretty? Even beautiful?
I can answer this question on my own— without a lover’s flattering tongue.
Face, you are like my heart— blemished of course, but still clean and pleasant.
There is indeed a beauty in your length and modest smile—a forehead too high like my pride—but still, balanced—but still, pretty.