She remains a partial gift;
some have none, some have much…
For her scales, sideways they tilt
still we crave her soothing touch.
With jars of scents, ointments and creams;
ourselves we paint seeking her face…
Fanciful our grotesque mask seems
but aloof she stays mocking our ways.
For true beauty in these things lie;
the morning dew on thirsty leaves…
The new-born sun that’s up so high
even in nature’s smile on lonesome cliffs!