On a curve where the road rounds
she sits and curves, as well,
her breast open and welcoming
to the lonely tourist, her skin
of cream with points of rouge
glows in the light and becomes
the light that beckons and warms
you out of sleep

Now, as I open my eyes, a new
life is unveiled flowing in
her graceful arcs from the hands
of the craftsman-a gift of love
and pride nestled in the rooms
The windows look out into vistas
as yet unknown, but known forever
nonetheless

Such is her mystery born of far
horizons-temples and sacred cities
transplanted to a new world
Her wood floors are jazz-aged  
and the fireplace is a holy womb
awaiting the birth of Now
On a curve where the road rounds,
I am home




L.G. Figgins © 2009