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(Poem by Wendy Howe ) He called her photo, Seventeen not because of her age but for the years she had lived and lain with him on beds of wild grass, river sand and velvet sloped smooth as the back of a Serengeti cat. His fingers clicked, the camera caught her beautiful face pivoting on a long neck other models and dancers envied. Often, she looked toward the trees and her silhouette made a cameo of the sun. This was the type of pose he loved to capture, Andromeda shining through the daylight hours. Her haunted glance, her yearning to be protected was something men bought and women could wear as a starlit wish of their own. To know more about this poem, about Wendy Howe All Images & Poems (En) 
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