The Truth of It: A Poem

Not just beauty, which can be so rare
that a face can linger on for centuries,
or ships are launched,
set into motion merely
by the slope of a female face
the arch of a brow, or
the silent tumble of an eyelash onto a cheek.

Not only that.
But the ability to create
another human form
by the pure instinct of reproduction,
the ticks and whorls
of genes and cells
as they divide and assemble
month after month,
until a new person is born
with fingers and toes,
and an imagination just taking shape.

All of this, but still more --
the sheer number of the responsibilities
taken, and contributions given,
swim like fish upstream
where men stand still
at river's edge, dreaming of
freedom, a warm supper,
or the slip of a silken
strap from the shoulder of a woman.
They cast their nets and reel in lines
morning after morning,
as women swaddle their young, instruct the future,
and dream of love, just love.

All of this,
the world, and
our significance
within it
is just a dream,
and we're merely dying.
Women close their eyes,
taking with them
their thoughts and wishes;
Men awake, only to find
beauty has gone.

                                                                 by tutorheather