Madonna, child in arms, she is a dark warm blanket
a lodge in January, embers of a smoldering fire.
Lighting his eyes, his small heart held by her gaze
She is his inception of love.
Heavy hair falls over her small olive-skinned body
hard at all the angles,
soft where touch burns, for better or worse.
Her lips somber lines below sharp cheekbones and trepidations.
Eyes incantations of water in the moonlight.
Her body the beauty of ancient ruins under new day sun-
casting light like jade sharp beneath obsidian shadows.
NorthSouth Press 