Invite a man in to taste this space,
And he better know how to tread light,
This is a womb of intuition,
A woman cave.
Honor the hand prints on the wall.
This mind, this delicately sculpted grace,
Years in the making,
Thoughts carefully aligned,
Boundaries steadily defined,
Words meticulously chosen,
To share honest interpretations, honestly spoken,
To channel pregnant perspective, intuitive wisdom.
Here, all is revealed,
Peer over the rim into the mirror,
The reflecting glass,
But do not splash,
Do not ripple,
Stay calm, stay humble,
A real woman’s heart is a work of art,
Hoarded bits of love and loss,
Assembled and tossed,
To spell reason,
A real woman wears solitude well,
A robe, a veil.
Crafts magic while alone,
Shapes diamonds from stones.
If she invites you in, just know how to hold your own.
One thought on “A Work of Solitude”
A robe for the body, a veil for the face. I hope they are not held on by knots too tight to release, but simple overlaps that can easily drift loose at the woman’s desire. This leads me to also hope that we can someday trust that we don’t need to tie a tight knot, knowing those veils and robes will never be force open. Something very sacred about the flow of shimmering folds, like gentle waves on a mermaid scales.
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