A woman is the water to a seed,
attached to the root of a man,
clinched to his growth
after Mama's rearing.
She is damaged lest it is done,
a flawed jewel pristine,
and don't place a hand on her!
Mama once told me.
Guide the light in her darkest place,
like the moon painted on her sorrow.
Brush over the blemish,
till revealing the masterpiece she is.
Fight for the woman like war raging,
escalating triumph for her battle field.
A hollow place pending burial
of everything against her smoking gun.
Don't place a hand on her!,
the woman who is not Mama,
but reflects her very image
mirrored in a different home.
Hone the floors adjacent her walls,
and beat not but the dust from a rug.
Greet the woman over the threshold,
beseeching all that she has to give.
Fondness is a woman,
deep like her anatomy's valley
speaking all that she is,
yet what a man makes of her.
That is all that Mama said..
-Jg