She strides with a regal pose
Dreadlocks trail down her backside.
Highlights of copper and gold
woven throughout her crown.
Her physique taunt and limber
like that of a dancer.
She bathes in frankincense and myrrh,
the glow of olive oil illuminates her ebony skin.
No catcalls follow her along her journeys
for men are breathless by her aura.
Young and old love her the same;
the young see the child within,
elders garner strength from love she sends.
Cypress trees bow to touch her lips.
Weeping willows encircle her in tender limbs.
She leaves every place better than before her presence.
Her name, you ask. . .
Her name is,
her name is,
her name is
Beauty. . .
by: Joyce Rose-Harris © 2006