She was

She was

Indian brown tanned in summer; a slave to

clothes pins and snapping sheets on the line;

           the gardener of climbing honeysuckle and jasmine;

burnt hotdogs on the grill, the way I liked them.

 

But mostly, she was his.

 

She was

‘Thumbelina’ at bedtime, ruler of the metronome every.single.day,

tiny-waisted swirling skirts, red lips and . . . Chanel #5.

 

But first of all, she was his.

 

She probably never knew it was her hands that dazzled me.

I’d sketch them in my sleep and dream of them holding mine.  And those hands

were the most elegant and tended,

capable of such things . . .

 

And yes, they also belonged to him.  To adorn with glittering expressions

of stars he would pull down from the night sky, if you please.

 

And she was

the giver of spoons for mud pies;  tea with milk

in tiny teacups; eggnog with tonsillitis and keeper of glorious

treasures in her jewelry box.

 

But always she was his.  My dad’s.  She hung the moon for him once,

I think.  And there it ever remains.  Waxing.

Waning throughout years I can only remember on nights the stars are diminished

by moonshadows cast through my open shutters.

 

Like tonight.

 

And he bides time quietly now.  I know.

for she

just

           was.

Reviews

[Forest Green]

This was true divinity...chocolate fudge with cold, cold milk. Had to get a run for the hill at the beginning, but then it was smooth sailing.

Picture-perfection in lyrics and lines and such a pleasant and wonderful clothesline out front.

Beautiful..! A favorite...

[Arthur Henn]

(J) The title, the poem, its writing of what pulls the strings of this readers heart... Each line written - A memory of She Was - Wonderful!

[Catcher]

A picture is worth... 217 words, according to my count. A very striking image to go along with a very honest and flowing poem. lovely.