Sour Cider

Window Woman

She is your prom-date at first, girl-friend a little later
And eventually becomes goddess. She’s your dream weaver
And nurturer of what the heart holds in abundance
A perennial woman who primes you for the chase
And takes you in as the lone hunter.

She is avocado in hip bone, honey rust in skin tone
Maple in iris, and an uncut diamond beneath
She rarely crumbles to forces of nature
Tempests that pull the tide over and above
The leaky vessel of your body

She will resist any other man, be bearer
Of the rust-proof, drift-free and fade-tolerant
A love for all seasons, and still we mistreat her
As neglect becomes a protracted sentence, and appreciation
Transforms to a forgotten art movement. And chemistry turns into
An actual science, as compliments are robbed
Of their spontaneity and truth.

Why, oh why, do we men always let
The sweetest apple turn to sour cider?


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