She is the peak of perfection,
The cream of the crop.
The culmination of natural selection.
That brought her to the top.
Countless generations made her,
A beauty to behold.
Honed are her charms lair,
A story never old.
Her hair falls with abandon,
Upon her skin so soft
The curve of her abdomen
Pulls you to its loft.
The softness in her voice,
The gleam in her eye.
Tells you that she’s the one,
For which you should vie.
She waits in radiant beauty,
She does not run.
You approach her with a fever,
She has you undone.
Drawn to procreate, to breed.
To insure the line goes on.
She chooses carefully, her steed.
Countless generations strong.
And life goes on.
Janda, 20
At the Peak of Womanhood
Copyright 2002 © Ronald W. Hull
12/15/02