Born on a Sunday

For Nif, the most lovely figure model in the land.

She was born on a Sunday, as time was sighing through its slow dance.
Outside, Summer was giving up his youth and the Goddess was dabbing her wrists with the humid sweetness of the first fallen leaves. The restless trance of long days and frantic copulation had passed; the world moved gracefully into the lavish display of the harvest. In this era of decadent plumpness, she took her first breaths. From then on, her body grew in time to a slow, steady pulse, which swung between the practice of drawing in for the winter and the spilling out of the season’s riches. This is the time when the Goddess begins to gather the clutter of creation like fine ingredients, preparing the pieces to stew during the months of dark interlude.
All of these mysteries have been folded softly into her flesh the way smooth batter succumbs to the spatula’s desire to see it curve again and again, the slow wave of sugared promise saying “yes, yes, just one more time.”
Born into understanding of lemon zest, of deep red wine, of the endless possibilities of chocolate. Born to know the scent of the apple tree, even when the orchard lies frozen under a winter sky and the streams of springtime sap are like cold toffee under the grey bark. Born with hips that love deep drums - sombre, sultry laments that vibrate through the room, out the door, over the lake and all the way to forever, forever, forever. Born into candlelight, into the sun stretching with lazy tenderness, into shadow dances. Born with an instinct for the fabric of life, a flowing velvet, silk and cotton curiosity, with a secret leather lining and bells that get her laughing.
Is this an image worth trying to capture on a canvas? Oh, yes, most certainly.