Tabor is ready, whatever life asks. 
Her feet will not miss a beat. 
The unfaltering aim of her gaze, 
the lift of her chin, 
the pride in the bones of her cheeks 
all announce that 
this woman's dance will not end. 

Her belly has been a taut dome 
over the head of that holy of holies, new life. 
A dome whose design could outshine 
even the Taj Mahal, and all the seven 
wonders of the world (if the truth be told). 
This belly is not afraid of a furrow or fold. 

Nor is her tunnel of love and of birth 
ashamed of itself, of the hidden 
muscles that hold and give forth 
the loves of a woman's whole life. 

Nor do the breasts scorn the fullness 
that makes them sag, her breasts 
that need to climb no mountain to gaze 
upon promised land, they have been 
the mountain, they have been the land 
overflowing with milk and with honey. 

She will dance on and on.