My Mona Lisa

I don't know why you smile,
my Mona Lisa,
but I am not beyond your mysteries.
"You can't understand a woman."
I've heard that one before.
But your secret is no different
than the secret of time, or space;
or the secret of life,
which you make with me
when we two are one.

Your secret is not in your face;
not from your deep, dark eyes,
as unfathomable as any stretch of ocean;
not from your whisper-filled lips
that may contain many secrets
(all of which I hope to hear);
and, no, not even from your nose,
though how it succeeds in fitting you so perfectly
may mystify me,
from time to time.

Many spy on the horizon,
as they do when looking for other answers:
they find your secret of life;
they find your secret of time
(but not how you make so much time
for one as me);
they find your secret of space
(but not how you make so much space
for love of me).
But to discover why you smile,
I will not search in typically masculine ways,
for then I would fail.

I search your heart, my darling,
and find only that to a gentle touch
and to a warm tear
it is always open.
I search your head, my love,
and find such a puzzle inside
that no secret could be found,
even by you;
and it is obvious by the tilt of your lips
and by the glint of your airbrush eyes
that you know very well why you smile.

And so, finally, I search your soul;
but only my soul can interpret yours,
and they speak in languages
far beyond our comprehension.
So let us set our souls free
to wander, and wind their way,
and intertwine
in the far reaches of the galaxy we share.

And still you smile,
my Mona Lisa,
and still I am mystified.
And so, I paint you.
I draw you out onto paper:
every line, every curve, every shade.
I draw not a photograph,
for photographs have tried to capture
the secret of your smile;
tried, and failed.
No, I draw a portrait of you
that is not perfect and not flawless,
just true.

And so I stare at you
to find your features,
to be the Columbus of this voyage;
the first man to understand the secret
of a woman's smile.
Maybe you smile for me -
or maybe I am vain - you smile not for me,
but for life, or for children,
or to look pretty, or for the poor,
or for money, or for the pink windowshades
in the background of the room.

I am at the point of resigning myself
to be yet another puzzled prince
when I see you,
your lips and your eyes and your nose and all.
Your secret, as grand
yet as simple as the secret of life -

you smile because I wonder why you smile.
Your secret is nothing more
than the secret of knowing
that you do not have a secret.
At least, no more than I do,
and we will find each others' secrets
in time.

My Mona Lisa,
I know why you smile,
and I smile too.

~04/2005