
POEM

I knew a woman, lovely in her bones.
When she sighed, small birds sighed back at her.
Ah, when she moved she moved more ways than one,
The shapes a bright container can contain.
Of her choice virtues only gods should speak,
Or English poets who grew up on Greek.
(I'd have them sing in chorus, cheek to cheek.)

How well her wishes went, she stroked my chin,
She taught me turn and counter turn and stand.
She taught me touch, that undulant white skin,
I nibbled meekly from her proffered hand.
She was the sickle and I, poor I the rake,
Coming behind her for her pretty sake.
(But what prodigious mowing we did make.)

Love likes a gander and adores a goose.
her full lips pursed, the errant note to seize,
She played it quick, she played it light and loose.
My eyes, they dazzled at her flowing knees.
Her several parts could keep a pure repose,
Or one hip quiver with a roving nose.
(She moved in circles and those circles moved.)

Lets seed be grass and grass turn into hay.
I'm a martyr to a motion not my own. 
What's freedom for?  To know eternity?
I swear she cast a shadow white as stone.
But who could measure eternity in days?
These old bones live to learn her wanton ways.
(I measure time by how a body sways.)

   --Theodore Roethke--

