Grace Of The Makers

Discussion in 'Poetry Forum' started by MuheCa, Nov 30, 2018.

  1. MuheCa

    MuheCa New Member

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    She was working, a seeming work and a seeming play, a seeming pleasure and a seeming art.

    She took the silken many colored scarves, touching them with her hands and eyes,

    drawing from them their fine radiance in the sun,

    drawing from them the languages of the muses,

    the living muses who had come forth from the hands and from the souls of the makers,

    their speech saying nothing really, laughing and sighing.

    Each scarf she drew from her basket.

    Each scarf she hung there in the sun.

    They were arrayed like flags of many nations, nations without armies.

    The morning sunlight, golden, made splendor of the many colors,

    made splendor of her hair and face,

    made an halo about her head in the wisps of her auburn hair.

    He came to her bare footed in the grass,

    the living grass on which the living woman also stood.

    He had found her there.

    He had watched her, seeing the grace of her hands,

    of her hips beneath her robe.

    “There you are”, he said to her, a smile in his voice.

    “Here I am”, she answered.

    Going to her he put his arms about her,

    he touched her with his arms and with his hands,

    with his chest and with his admiration.

    He cupped her breasts with his hands,

    uplifting them gently through her robe.

    Hard hands, makers hands.

    She lowered her hands from her pleasant task,

    lowered them, leaning back into his embrace,

    lowered them to place them on his.

    He closed his hazel eyes against the riot of color,

    knowing the color of her hair even so,

    the touch of it with his cheek,

    the fragrance of it in the morning.

    With his head tilted forward,

    with her head tilted back,

    he kissed the place below her ear,

    the place that made the little thrill,

    the sister of the thrill in his hands.

    The words came into his mouth unbidden,

    came up from within him,

    from a place he acknowledged.

    And so he did not swallow them,

    to send them back to that place,

    to make them barren.

    “I love you”, he spoke into her ear.

    “I know you do”, she sighed.

    “I love you forever”, he breathed.

    “As I do you”, she answered.