Unique she was,
Like that second moon in June.

She always wanted to learn to play the blues,
Put music to a tragic life;
Preferring the tales of dogs
To lyrics of death and abandonment.

Living was the easy part.
Although it must have been confusing.
If it wasn’t for her repartee
She would have had no social life at all.
She was all about sharing…
This, the simple life of a refugee.

And she, the proverbial open book,
Told her stories,
Lived her stories,
And finally died her stories.
Leaving us behind to read…

Stories, not unlike a river,
Flowing,
Coursing through her
Uncharted whitewater canyons.

She let the stories take her
Into and out of reality.
Making all that was written,
A simple, yet necessary, diversion.

Acting on impulse, her life was art.
Connecting to information,
More than impressive,
A brain that delighted everybody;
Your friendly neighborhood librarian
Meets crocodile Dundee.

She only had one true love.
Inseparable from her lady Labrador, she was.
And the men she vowed she’d never wed,
Quickly drew their own conclusions.
.
But she was quick with a joke,
Preferred midnight to madness,
Laughter to sadness.

Her dreams and imaginings
Wreathed her in smoke,
Made us delirious while in her company.

I do miss the idle conversation,
The sighs and the smiles.
Her presence, a summer day,
Ending much too soon.

Unique, she was,
Like a Persian princess
Eating sunflower seeds
Beneath a pale blue moon.




Michael S. True
10-5-13