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 Elizabeth Kelly-Moen
3/3/03 Copyright 2003 ©