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