Woman Holding A Balance Poem by r james sterzinger

he saw her first painted
in the warm light
of a cold December.

like the winter snow
pure white,
a landscape a portrait
by a God unknown
known only through the heart
yet mystical, like one taken at the rail

she became the gift
her hair had the smell of the season
of spice, of cinnamon,
of her heat
of her passion

you cannot know a work of
art with one view
you must learn the artist
the painting
the vision, the purpose

he married her
remained with her
studied her
loved her, learned to love her
in her arms he made their children
at night he would lie by her
next to the smell of the spice
in her hair

twenty-five years later
another Christmas
the years have taken toll
they share the same bed
a different need and a different love

yet another Christmas
as there will be many more
the one of the four occasions
the still share each other
with each other

she's asleep now
she breathes in and out
the rhythms of the years
as the lights from the tree
flickers in patterns
on the wall and on the sheets

he knows the maps
he knows the territories
of her body
he smells the spice
the deep cinnamon and sweetness
as if two-thousand years ago

he hears her breathing
he stares at the Christmas morning
in the early dark
he comes back to their bed
wraps his arm around the territories
buries his face in her hair of cinnamon of spice
a fourth wise man stares at his star
hunkered down tight to the small of her back
in the dark he dreams in sleep