The Greek Woman
I had supposed all this was closed to me.
The age of miracles was long since gone,
no wisp of wonder left to dwell upon.
I had assumed that I was doomed to be
leaf-litter underneath a winter tree,
about as in-demand as Prester John,
as of-the-moment as the mastodon,
all middle age and mediocrity.
I ache to watch her putting up her hair,
alone before the mirror, unaware:
I love the God-sent perfume of her skin,
the olive oval of that perfect chin,
the way she graces, not just sits upon, a chair.
She came, that life-in-earnest should begin.
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