Waist

At the Waist

In the silent span where shoulder meets hip,
the waist holds stories, a quiet, measured script.
It's the seam in a dress, the buckle on a coat,
a whisper of a curve that beauty can’t deviate or gloat.

You can ask a barber, “Could I trim my waist?”
He’ll chuckle, “No, sir, that’s where style takes its stake.”
A whisper in boot‑lace – a loop, a gentle kiss,
the swoop of a shawl that hints at what lies beneath this.

When the wind twirls loose through a summer’s breeze,
the waist stands proud, a sleeve‑free, wandering ease.
From the waist‑high tune of an old‑fashioned reel,
to the soot‑streaked clogs of the industrial feel.

And in every muscle, every bone, a gentle ward,
there's grace in the ribs that protect the heart,
a gateway for the breath that must remain in grace,
the middle map of life’s rhythm, the heart of a person’s pace.

So honour that narrow line, that line so deft,
where endless possibilities, like sea‑foam, are left:
A line that draws the eye, an anchor in bold weather,
in all we cherish, the simple, unpretentious waist.