How she loves him
She gently strokes his work worn brow
He calls and she comes
He asks and she gives
Her gaze intuits his desire
For his comfort she draws him in
to her warm and beating breast.
How he loves her
Ivory tower his alone
Porcelain delicate, smooth as glass
A treasure fought for
A prize attained
He sets her high
Atop his cluttered trophy shelf.
A man may have the wife of the first stanza and yet never realize the gift and never give her the honor she is due. He may imagine a porcelain prize, his idol on a shelf. She is not a real woman. She is not warm, but cold as glass. Her image blocks his view of the real woman stroking his brow. To him glass is the wife he believes he deserves. This warm woman is the whore he uses.
A woman too may have her masculine prize on the shelf and not see the gift in her arms.