Reality

Man is included within womban. 

Trying to turn that fact around,

he has twisted a world of lies

until it chokes all life. 

You spend nine months of dancing life

inside your mother.

You learn beauty, sensuality, hope and trust

suckling at her breast. 

All your life you want to curl again inside her,

want to suckle again.

(That curling into darkness

is gentle metaphor for approaching death.)

You re-enter that shelter in sex,

a little death and rebirth—or yearn to.

Woman is container,

whole, more than the sum of her parts. 

You are forever her cherished children. 

You grow to mate her, are meant to honor her,

yet you curl a questing, hopeful question mark

always within her love,

within the Universe of love,

within the Cosmic enfolding fabric of My love.

© Tamara Rasmussen 2018