She, The Overstanding

Blasée, the feminine
rolls her hidden eye,

and he marvels at
the width and breadth
of the mystery.

He is her fruit,
fallen into life,

and she is the shine
of the onyx.

He is doomed to measure
and weigh the residue
of meaning,

while she propagates
futures, mirages,
materialized in wombs.

She is the answer
elusively ahead of his questions.

Her sight is fixed
on horizons yet to appear,

and she is the root
that grows the trees;

she is the gravity
that births the stars.