Petticoat and petticoat, as is the collection for a woman’s wardrobe, during this hearty time of the 1950’s. Paris is a splendor for attentive glances over the shops. What is there for glimpses, other than what leaves treasured scents from neck and cheeks as deep in pallor with white as a silken blouse? Love leaves itself open for our eyes, in this reveal.
There is a child near a stable. Let him graze as much as the animals do. Let him feast, and then let him wander.
There is beauty to be seen for the girls whose adolescence is there in radiance and fullest glimmer of their innocence. Once in the eyes, protected from robbery, thus only given to an honest sort.
Why do we succumb ourselves to beauty of this degree, if not to give ourselves less of what we may aspire to be? To be selfless among beauty, is there to care for it. For if a woman decides herself to be beautiful, then she should not say to the man wishing to care for her, “I am no petal in a garden, needing care, needing worry, because the rose indeed has thorns.” The rose, for what it’s worth, still may receive water during a drought. A drought consists of, in this sense, a lost feeling of life. That is when defenses feel like barriers.
Can’t we imagine the lonely man about the home of his, solely remembering the rose for what it represents? Being, the lost love of his heart, as he waits for that organ to quit its humming beats against the singular wall of his chest. That lonely man cares for the rose, knowing it may prick him. It sits upon a mantle above a hearth, in a vase as old as himself.
Beauty has defenses, though the drought will leave them absent. Beauty is so much the defender of a heart, as the hands and arms are the defenders of both.
“Glue me to the tracks, why don’t you?” may whisper beauty, beneath the wind as it captures the golden texture of the sun. Though, when strength falters the movement of the gust, strength goes to free beauty.
We are, as we may, the helpers of our own selves, though cannot resist the attraction of trust.
The pull of it, for we become the weight for it, the anchor for it, as heavy as the anvil to the entire galley above the waves. We are brought down to trust’s fingers, when trust wishes to see what it has caught.
Love snares, because it is strength. It does not let go, because it is loyal.