April was the figurehead on an ancient Greek schooner; her legs grew upward, structured the bow of the ship; her torso plied clear azure waters. Marcus the ship-builder had defined her womanhood by carving olive wood breasts thrusting, nipples always erect, to be caressed by water and wind. He had given her large, searching blue eyes, so she might guide her men to safety, and streams of golden hair, so they could think of love and be comforted.
April was the spirit woman soaring, a sorceress of love for every ghost able to tame her. She became the wind over mountains, calling with ease her silver lover. As she flew, she summoned the young wind to her. He came from below, rose to her, commanded by her desire. Surging through her, they were the same; he twisted higher to face her and hold her in his arms. The young wind carried her, his back naked, muscles arched to cut away his rivals as they flew, entwined in eternity.
April was Hester, black, shriveled, dying of old age, lying in a primitive hut, a tiny fire spiraling wisps of smoke up through the opening in the reeds thatched to form her circular dying-place, the fire not for warmth, but to carry her spirit to heaven on its smoke.
Hester the earth woman lay with her hands pressing an ancient Bible to her chest. The only book she had ever read, it had been presented to her on her seventh birthday, exactly ninety-three years earlier to the day. Surrounded by love, she sighed and whispered her spirit upon a plume of smoke, beginning the ascent to her ancestors.
April was the spirit woman soaring, a sorceress of love for every ghost able to tame her. She became the wind over mountains, calling with ease her silver lover. As she flew, she summoned the young wind to her. He came from below, rose to her, commanded by her desire. Surging through her, they were the same; he twisted higher to face her and hold her in his arms. The young wind carried her, his back naked, muscles arched to cut away his rivals as they flew, entwined in eternity.
April was Hester, black, shriveled, dying of old age, lying in a primitive hut, a tiny fire spiraling wisps of smoke up through the opening in the reeds thatched to form her circular dying-place, the fire not for warmth, but to carry her spirit to heaven on its smoke.
Hester the earth woman lay with her hands pressing an ancient Bible to her chest. The only book she had ever read, it had been presented to her on her seventh birthday, exactly ninety-three years earlier to the day. Surrounded by love, she sighed and whispered her spirit upon a plume of smoke, beginning the ascent to her ancestors.
It would be too easy to say female with the imagery in this, but male writers can do sexual imagery as well.