What makes her so

She approached, softly,
a pink flamingo perched
upon a frozen lake, each step
a fluid motion creating
a sensual languid moment,
the tableau hers alone,
time stopped to watch,
oceans ceased movement,
the air held its breath,
she is the whisper of mist,
lilac scented crystal dew,
a lover’s passionate sigh,
the space she occupies, a
captivating sacred temple,
where others fail, what
makes a woman so, what
magic does she possess,
in a field of weeds,
she is that one blossom
standing alone, rising
above the common grass,
her entrance silences a room,
it is not beauty, it is grace,
that indefinable essence of a woman.

©2014, Donald Harbour

I can not see me

I looked in the mirror this morning,
I did not recognize the face reflected.
During a dream, or was it reality,
The layers of my life began to shed.
Bit by bit, skin by skin, memory by memory,
They all fell away as petals leave a flower.
Scattered and crushed on the soul’s floor,
Trod over into pulp, into shriveled pieces.
The mirrored person is staring sardonically at me,
A look of wonderment, amusement, or anguish.
I cannot tell, I cannot say, I cannot think,
Stunned by the stubble revealed, stalks of life.
There is a morphing in that callow face,
A presence that moves shadowed so slightly.
It is the bared essence of what I was,
Molded into what I’ve become, what I am.
All the years have chiseled at my stone,
Cover upon cover of fine particles, dust.
It is just a reflection in a mirror, but,
This reflection questions: “Is it you or me?”

Copyright: 2008, Donald Harbour