The Aroma of a Woman
by R A Beeman
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
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The femininity of nature is an elixir that will always give rise to the seasons of man.
The reluctance of summer to yield to the colors of fall is evident in the savory essence that fills the air surrounding my environment.
I rejoice in the changing of the guard as the femininity of my natural world is exposed once again as I inhale deeply the flavors she gives me.
Summer wishes to maintain the lushness of the fields that wave full bosoms of bounty that give rise to the smell of fresh mowed grass.
Yet, even as the first chills of fall settle on my skin. I am engulfed by the wonton waffling of the woman waiting to steal my summer away.
I must respect her for being strong, yet gentle enough, to push her way into my world.
The musk of man mixes with the nectar of woman as if fertilities last gasp of life gives way.
Desiring, not devouring,
Holding, not withholding,
Giving thanks that she even cares is what should be done.
The voracious hunger of man’s lusts is softened by the gentleness of vanilla rain emitting from golden hair, or the taste of apple on supple skin.
Patience, not power,
Respect, not ridicule.
Time tested virtues of understanding the aromas that bask beauty back into the deep recesses of silly minds are something long forgotten and strange for most men.
The aroma of a woman is not supper on the table or the smell of fresh rain in your laundry.
It is a power uniquely attracting the honeybee to the bud of the flower.
The flower freely gives as she is incessantly probed for her nectar, yet she shares her beauty as her bounty for life depends on that primordial dance.
I want her to just have me in all her glory. Covered in an array of spring; hyacinths, tulips, and cherry blossoms all giving rise to my hunger.
The honeysuckle of summer and the immortal buds of roses further my desires to be one with her.
The musk of autumn and the natural inclination to preserve life as if my neck is full and ready for the rut keeps me grounded.
For she doesnt' give just to any one, she chooses only whom she finds qualified.
For the winters are hard,
yet she gladly shares her blanket of white.
Ah, the aroma of a woman, true in its splendor, magnanimous in all its richness.
Always giving rise to the changing of my seasons.
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|Reviewed by CJ Heck
|Ahhh, an excellent metaphor here. Mother Nature is indeed a woman. Very well done, Mr. Beeman.
Hugs to you,
|Reviewed by jude forese
|precise analogy and analysis of an aroma that mystifies as well as stimulates ...|
|Reviewed by ~ Holly Harbridge (Reader)
|A stunning write, blessings, Holly|
|Reviewed by Chantilly Lace (Reader)
|Oh my,breath taking..ohhh how I missed you sweet Randy...Hugs,much love too you|
|Reviewed by Karen Vanderlaan
|such a beautiful write!|
|Reviewed by Tom Hyland
|RANDY - SPLENDIFEROUS!
Aaaaah - the Winter of '69 - a very great year! TK.
|Reviewed by Jeanette Cooper
|Sensuousness turned into budding spring for the senses. Nice job.|
|Reviewed by Dawn Anderson
|Reviewed by Tammy Wright (Reader)
|A beautiful, beautiful write Randy. "For she doesnt' give just to any one, she chooses only whom she finds qualified.
For the winters are hard, yet she gladly shares her blanket of white."