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Poem: Woman Taking Bath 

She takes her bath in early morning,
singing as she lathers.
I’m still abed.
Lying there
I imagine her
bountiful body,
no longer sylph-like
as when we first met,
but Rubenesque, God’s
plenty, awash in suds.
Holding tub’s sides,
she hoists herself up.
Water cascades from her,
hair thrown back
like a waterfall.
She’s standing now,
still singing.
Such munificence!
This snow-capped mountain,
throbbing with birds.

Speaking of...

  • A poem by Jerome L. Wyant.

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