Paean to Redheaded Women

Skin of alabaster porcelain,
turned up nose with cinnamon sprinkles,
a wry smile knows exactly what you want.
Mane of flame, mahogany, burning temples!
O that red, red hair!
Fire engines blush to see it,
turn green with envy.

Call her Lilith or Pandora,
Jezebel or Rita;
church folk call her "That woman!"
She's a gypsy saint,
a Celtic goddess.
She won't shut up or give up
or say "yes" when she means "no."

She'll wear emerald gowns
with fishnet stockings and gloves to her elbows.
All that auburn treasure locked tight in a bun.
Poured into clothes like an elixir into a retort.
She'll roll her loose-cannon hips
just to give the boys a heart attack
and patients in her burn ward a reason to live.

She's the foster child who seduced the master.
In her veins runs the crimson blood of Saxons
who did not so much sack Ireland
as left her panting, breathless for more.
Although there are beauties of every shade,
you might recall that no one much loved Lucy
when she was merely a blonde.