For Charlene

Strange how the silken sheets stick to her like magic,
highlighting every bend and curve of her body feminine.
Her glorious and gorgeous power
to control me like a vassal to his noble.
My love for her is so strong even though I shut the light
she still shines through the darkness with her beauty.

Strange how my senses are now attuned to beauty.
If I were a blind magic
would still show me the light
to respect the feminine
form, the noble
capacity for power.

Strange how her whisper still holds so much power.
Ringing church bells and lovebirds singing—nothing to its beauty,
medieval knights and kings—entire courts—not as noble,
her words, soft and sweet, ensnare me in their magic.
My savior/master/liege/lord feminine,
show me the light.

Strange how love sometimes feels like a pilot light
given gas until the flames lick about with power,
the fire growing and taking a form feminine.
The brilliant orange has a dangerous beauty.
The flame of love burns wildly—doing no damage, as if by magic,
the flame spirit cowed into behaving by a love so noble.

Strange thing how a woman can make you feel so noble.
How even though the groceries hurts my arms, she feels light.
The way her look fills me with magic
so that I come to dream one day she'll need saving and my power,
that one day she'll learn that for all my strength I still need her beauty.
The masculine was always made to serve the feminine.

Strange how love's hand attunes you to the feminine.
I learned to appreciate how a chrysanthemum can be noble,
to watch a sunset for its beauty,
how to make a heavy heart light.
I learned that compromise itself shows power,
and how every moment is magic.

So this is to my goddess feminine: You are my holy light.
You elevate us both to noble, and joined together we have power.
Not only do you rule beauty, you also reign over magic.