And she sang stories in the morning
To herself
As she sat naked on the bed
Rubbing oil into her body
To soften
Soften coarse skin hardened yesterday
And to still prying memories
As they sail the marrow of her shoulders
Her smile, from her mother’s side
Greeted warmly by strangers in winter
And her eyes, of Russian decent
From her father
Untamed and frightened
Wondering why the windows to her soul
Were reminiscent of her father
As two souls could be no further apart
But her voice was hers alone
Wholeness weaving between tones
And she sang stories in the morning
To herself
As she sat naked on the bed
To honour the human made of all things beautiful
And rejoice the unique woman she is
