Without Mask or Facade

She embodied for him something perfect, something sacred if not holy or divine,

To him she was all things feminine, all things beautiful and sensual and strong,

Fierce as a lioness, smooth as a panther gliding through the forest’s dark canopy,

He saw in her the wonder that man must have first felt and seen in woman,

All her strengths and beauties, all her erotic, fluid motion, laced with sureness,

The certainty of being that flooded from the eyes, her strength danced with her loveliness,

Her power held gently yet firmly in her intricately delicate, feminine form,

Her beauty, soft as the petals of orchids, the scent of her spirit intoxicatingly wild,

She did this without mask or façade, there was no veil upon the self that she portrayed,

There was no portrayal, there was only her. Deep blue eyes full of oceans, standing open,

Perceiving and being perceived. For her there could be no mask, no veil, not for him,

The world might never see this woman, might never know the real person that was herself,

But to him she could don no mask, could present no other self than that which lay at her core,

There was something about his eyes that saw so deeply, so softly into her heart,

She knew, not only, that no mask could hide her from the intent gaze of those eyes,

But that, startlingly, there was no need for hiding, no fear of being seen and known by this man,

She had never been opened so fully, never been laid so wonderfully bare, so naked,

So unafraid. It was as if the sun had risen up before her and the tight bud of her heart,

Had reached the day of its opening in the perfect time written deep in the fabric of its seed,

Her petals sprang gently out as if by some instinct beyond argument, beyond refute,

Taking in this powerful, glorious light. In her heart she had just begun to blossom,

To him alone she stood open, vulnerable, fragile and yet infinitely strong, unwavering and unafraid,

He saw in her no weakness in need of rescue, no child in need of his protection,

He saw in her, rather, something perfect and wonderfully formed,

He saw within himself the place where only she had always belonged,

He saw within her the shape and form of his own spirit, a perfect imprint,

His own masks lay smoldering on the ground, he could never wear them again,

His many costumes burned up in the blue fire of her penetrating eyes,

He knew that if he touched her he too would burn, they would both be consumed,

And made white hot in the fire between them. It was then he knew he loved her,

It was then he gave her everything, every secret, every fear, every hope, every dream,

To her it was as if a million sunbeams had suddenly flared in her spirit,

The warmth steadily radiating outward from her middle into every part,

It was then she read his name written deep in her heart lying hidden in the leaves,

It was then she knew she loved him, it was then she gave him everything.

Eric M. Petit