Inspired by Rick Berry, a painter whose figures are unabashed, but not always as curvy as the mature woman in this poem.
A woman–
She dances in the morning light
In the power of her unabashed curvature–
The full breast, the round stomach,
The tender rosy tint of her skin
In the glow of the rising sun.
Hers is the beauty of having labored,
Confident in the strength of her body
That more than once released a newborn,
Wet with the blood and fluid of her womb
Then held upon her warm sweaty midriff
And welcomed with fresh milk into
A legacy of human struggle.
These she nurtured with love and soft arms.
This dance now is to reclaim her rhythm.
She moves with the pulse of the drum
As if it’s her own heartbeat.
She feels the deep strum of bass
As if it’s the earth’s ground.
She sighs with the high breathy flute
As if it’s the cloud on which she floats.
There is sinew under her soft supple skin.
Her body’s muscles echo the millions of ancestral mothers
Who have come before her bearing two-limbed fruit
And daring to strive forth daily in tasks and joys.
She sinks into all her senses.
She smells the oil of amber and rose upon her wrist.
She feels the warmth of sunlight upon her face.
She tastes a ripe peach and rejoices in its juice.
Her feet, touching bare upon the ground, stomp to the beat of drum.
She sees sky, grass, flower, a child’s face, and a man’s weathered yet longed-for visage.
She hears her own voice singing in sympathy with the music’s rhythm
And her heart cries for beauty in all and in awe.
She dances life and death and life again–
A woman.
The Muses of Happiness 