Do not say she is beautiful.
Say she is the engine, the fuel,
the rubber tires, the race itself.
Say she is the handle of the drawer,
the door’s brass knob, the lock unlocked.
Say she’s the path. The steepest road.
The cold when the sun goes down.
Tell her she is the infinite dark,
the orbiting moon, an eagle,
the relentless wind.
Say she’s galoshes, a garage door, the faint
scent of rain. The barren winter.
The nothing you can’t quite touch.
But do not say she is beautiful.
She’ll come to crave such dross.
Tell her she’s the twisted twig,
the beacon at the bay, the river’s
song when it meets a rock, the fog,
the leaping wild rose that blooms
and thrives any damn where it pleases.
Well, that title is an enigma hanging over an enigma for me. I love the images, the cadence of Say she’s…, but I’m not sure who or what she is. At first I thought you were writing about your daughter, then the tags confirmed that, but it’s any girl anyway, but so many of the comparisons seem so adult, so mature. Anyway, I get the idea that no matter what you say, she’s her own comparison, rugged and beautiful.
Well, I did have daughters in mind though every woman is a daughter. I guess I thought both adults and kids
that¹s why it was mixed I was mixed! Good catch on your part!
From: “comment-reply@wordpress.com” Reply-To: Date: Friday, December 5, 2014 at 7:57 PM To: Rosemerry Trommer Subject: [A Hundred Falling Veils] Comment: “Perhaps It’s What You Are Thinking, But …”
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