She wonders
what she has missing,
inside, thinks
how she barely read poetry,
all through her life. She could have,
had she wanted,
if she’d had an interest.
Perhaps being a dreamer
was different
than being a romantic...

Certainly, words
had always paraded
through her mind’s sight,
enunciating worlds
fantasy lives, she imbibed
frenetically, eagerly,
hoping to fly, into
chasmic heights,
pulled on
by gravid tomes life,
in her adulation...…

Pitched into yawing zeal
of story time’s breath,
she plumbed
and inventoried,
noted inflections,
gathered verbiage, created
warehouses of wordy pith,
battered and page-crinkled books
were converted to mind...

Yet, the succinctness
of clandestine nuances,
the dips and twists of
lilt and cadence,
of borrowed rhyme,
the powerful punch
of feathery weight,
preserved by time,
were not for her mind’s
consequential delight...

Not fully understanding
the rapture attained
by reading stanza’s
versed acclaim,
yet wholly
under word’s spell,
she picks up her pen,
and conduits her heaven
into Poetry...

Erin Moen
3/3/03
Copyright 2003 ©  

Erin Elizabeth Kelly-Moen
© Copyright 2008