Now That I'm Forty

Imperfection is beautiful.  
I will not detest my body.  
These curves define my landscape,  
a terrain naturally sculpted  
with bulges pleasing to the touch.
 
My flesh and bone are a diary of existence,  
each year etching its tale.  
Time, that relentless artist,  
sculpts on without pause.
 
This body—a marvel,
a wild, unfathomable miracle—is mine.  
With hands, heart, and sinew,  
I stretch into the world  
as a giver, a healer,  
soil for sowing comfort and joy.
 
I spread my legs as a silent prayer and  
rest in grace, knowing this body,  
in all its flawed humanity,  
will be a conduit for pleasure  
for the one I’ve chosen to love.