And if you were to see
her body,
filtered through a glass window,
draped and lit
like an artist's model
would you miss the scars,
of loss,
of age,
of childbirth?
Can you not see
the beauty that still lies beneath?
If so,
then why can't she,
and why does she obsess on imperfections
that have so little impact
when confronted with the whole picture
that is beauty,
that is woman,
that is life?
* * *
1 comment:
This is beautifully done, both the image and the words. I particularly like how you conclude the poem.
I have quite a few of those scars.
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