Woman's Stew Poem by L C Vieira

With a quick flick
you catch her
hips swaying
thighs dancing -
into the pot!

Efficient Master Chef!
You select each morsel,
stirring the soup.
Oh! This banquet of scents
from your woman's stew.

Are you some Olympic god
gliding through this hot sea,
such easy strokes,
her restless waters
rising to meet you?

You catch your breath
and dive in again -
afraid of nothing.

Wait! Then the soldier
you become,
seasoned, listening
for the signs,
to take her forest
by surprise!

But then, as gardener
you bow and choose
each dewy flower,
each downy stem.

You tread so gently
on her path -
open blades
of grass, now folding,
giving way to
your bold talent.

There's nothing left -

but wild arms tossed,
and sleep, exhaustion,
floating, limping,
light limbs tangled;
two old trees,
oak and maple

sewn together
as a seam;
curious and
different barks.

Ripe fruit hangs.
The cardinal trills.

She dreams of
a quick flick -

He sniffs the air -
and smiles.

(2012, Version 2)