ReConfigured: Sense Of An Unexplained Sighting, [Mature]

[to Lady Contentment, and her friends;

and in memory of Sir Peter Paul Rubens]

 

I cannot tell whether a vision,

a dream, or a metaphor---

something, perhaps, like Eliot

experienced at Burnt Norton,

explicable only in poetic terms

that self-indulged perverts

and self-identified prudes

can never accept nor manipulate

Behind the outer high walls,

and next to them the even higher hedges,

you and your friends gathered---

clad only in baggy cargo pants

and otherwise topless and barefoot---

for an afternoon of "barefoot croquet."

Delightedly the sun caressed

your bare breasts, and theirs;

the grass kissed your bare feet, and theirs.

What perverts and prudes might make

of this I neither know nor care.

The sound of your giggles and theirs,

and the smack of the balls across the lawn,

became a chorale of innocent delectation.

The ancient, Hellenic poets

would have declared this

a manifestation of goddesses

(and Rubens would have painted it so).

I think, however, that this

is the stellar cosmos, itself,

delivering to us, undeserving,

a rarefied validation---

indeed, a constellation---

of the curvacious beauty

you display so perfectly.

 

Starward

 

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