she was poetry

She was poetry, flowers
the sun smiling, itself
shining…a vista…
words of a moment
unraveled, in stretches
of old darkness
castles and keeps
she was beauty walking
with time unmetered, a
moment of rapture
and rupture, she
was poetry…words of
others, alive
in reams of paper
depths and heights of
books spent
describing her
praising, relishing her;
she was poetry…when
poetry was the synthesis
of emotion, license
and expression…and
she was owned
her beauty bought, words
not her own, her
dowry exchanged
she was property of
thought and body
a contract of kingdoms
the aggregation
of power
she was poetry because
without that meter
that prose…measure
and meaning…there was
nothing else
that she could be
so let her be
grateful cordial memorable
productive and
provincial, absent and
present, she can be the best
without deflection
she can be

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