Don't say her skin is alabaster.
She's not some goddess
Standing cold and dusty
In an old museum
She's warm and smelling of lilacs
Fresh from her bath.

 

Don't say her eyes are sapphires.
It is true they shine,
But from within;
Never artificially.
They are windows to her mind
Reflections of her soul.

 

Don't say her teeth are pearls,
Or her lips are rubies,
For these are mere stones;
Not precious enough to compare.
I know of nothing that is.

 

Don't even try to describe her.
Just remember that,
Created from Adam's rib,
She's second best, and second hand.
She's just a woman after all.

 

 

  January 1972