a mistery as whole as any other
this fresh earth of spring
sometimes we say woman

I smile at tired women and
they smile back at me
I smile at beautiful women and
few of them don't  really need
my wondrous eyes

they know the weight of a hand,
the flame of dance, the duty to care
they know what a dress is
especially in an embrace
they know oblivion, mischief,
the rage of hours, the hours of blood,
the tearful line between
reason and passion

they don't ask who they are
when the sun is round like
the womb of words
and the heart a volcano
of quietness