She Still Burns

At her age she

Did appreciate

The calm stability

Of middle age

Of mature love

The security

The lack of drama

The quiet good life

Built on respect, history

Friendship, good meals

Intellect, companionship



Maybe it was her poet soul

Maybe it was her oppositional

Streak, deep and belligerent

Maybe it was the passing

Of the years themselves

Reminding her

That she would never

Be young and beautiful again

Never young and in love again

That reckless, greedy, heedless

Messy love that only the young

Seem to tumble into


Some days she felt like the

Middle aged suburban wife

And mother she was

“Soccer mom with an attitude”

But other days

There was a supernova

In her belly, in her chest

Threatening to break free


Carefully restrained passion

Deeply hidden hungers

That could explode at any moment

Erupt like lava from her depths

Flowing onto the thick sheet of ice

Of staid, mature adulthood

The steam rising twenty feet, thirty

Liquid fire

Incinerating the winter dry trees

Scorching the air

Permanently altering her landscape


© 2016 Christine Elizabeth Ray – All rights Reserved


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