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I find my rhythm again when I am surrounded by women

When I have been off key, operating at a pitch that does not suit me

Women allow you to be out of sorts and circle back.

There is not a linear line, only ups and downs, swerves and swirls

Where men are excess or austerity

Women are the circling ceiling fan aerating the room

Women are the steady hum of bees

When you meet a natural woman, she is adorned in all her own way.

Not the femininity constructed by man: fragile, hairless, gentile

A natural woman discovers her own form of adornment

Finds pleasure in the morning ritual or flux

Woman may be the Menthol American Spirits cigarette

or black coffee

or seeds sprinkled in a forsaken teapot 

She is scrapped remnants of fabric braided into a long knot

the scavenger, mender, creator

Woman is the waiting place, the stepping stone, the destination

The mother, the destroyer

Woman is the kiss on your brow, the spit on your face, the warrior in her own right, unconcerned with the problems you bemoan to her

Woman is the spider

Forging webs unseen to many, but with a strength and flexibility that is anything but man-made

Woman is to my left and to my right, not the imitation or opposite of man

She stands in the dirt in the loftiest of ways

Poseidon, I believe it is the woman who rules the seas

It is the woman who reclaims me

 

 

 

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