The young called her the Lady of Lines,

And truly, her face had all the signs

Of an arduous, though, noble, life,

As mother of two and farmer’s ex-wife.

For good reason, I won’t say her name,

But in her field, she was a Grand Dame.

You’d know it in a snap, but no, not me,

I wasn’t into lit, had left that be.   

I had occasion to meet her one day,

And as I do photography for pay,

Asked would she allow me the pleasure

Of a portrait she’d always treasure.

At first she declined, seemed a bit shy,

But pressed, she said, “I don’t deny

My face would have interest for you.

For there is character here, it’s true .

I’ve lived a life that’s rewarded me

With no great riches but what you see,

A leathery skin, wrinkles that lead

To faded blue eyes, but still I can read,

And to my lips, which I often purse,

Across my brow, lately much worse.

I even have folds beside my nose.

It was years ago when I got those.

Look at each line with respect, my son,

For they’ve all with dignity been won.

Ten thousand lines of poems I wrote 

For each crease in my face you note.

Wait just a moment and you can look

At my anthologies and chap book.”

I waited, thought she’d bring a couple,

But her arms were piled high, yet supple.

I thumbed through one, its pages I’d flick,

But slowed to read in another quite thick,

Discovered all had the most beautiful verse!

I think right then I fell in love......... Worse,

I had to tell her how badly I was smitten,

With all the wonderful poetry she’d written.

Her face crinkled into a smile and happy times,

Me with my photography and her writing lines.

My lovely lady is gone now, to her reward,

I gaze deeply at her portrait, then look upward.

Her poems on the sky, their pretty lines I trace, 

But none is so beautiful as the lines of her face.