Her smooth skin tells all truths in gold hued white.
Of choices waiting, paths untried, of tears
uncried. It speaks of laughter, rapture, and
a thousand joys to come.
When womanhood arrives, so tremulous and
unsure, will she be marked then? Stamped,
with proof of trial or triumph? Middle life,
or marriage, childbirth, loss, divorce, perhaps
even love? Of these, which will imbue her flesh
with footpaths, hidden trails and secret ways?
When they do come, will the lines that tell the
story of her, be grown around her eyes,
like laughter chasing back the shadows?
Or will they come as furrows, gouging deep
sad grooves from her perfect, unlined skin?