The Lady


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A dignified lady

often visits me.

She’s about six, fatherless

and has a flair for words.

She dislikes her ‘letter life’

roaming about

in coaches, boxes and pockets

all the time.

She’s a storm at home

(her mother’s version)

though at my place

she flows like a gentle breeze

carrying fragrance

of fresh enlivening words

with the jingle of a child’s voice.

I suspect

a poet is in the making.




Posted for Poetry Pantry #357 @ Poets United