I held seashells to my ear;
poetry was the pearl, whispered
wishing, always
upon the brightest star
after everyone else walked away
no one believed I saw it fall.
On honeysuckle mornings,
peeking through shades at sunshine
as grass tickled bare feet
Even then, the scent lured me
velvet petals plucked
between my fingers
"he loves me, he loves me not,
he loves me!"
and I left a trail of flowers;
wore a white lace table runner
for a veil.
Grandma cried;
made me kneel and pray
for wealth, knowledge
and taught me to be a lady.
So, I spoke softly, stepped gently
but, with a little sway
fond of my femininity.
Some of us were born romantics.
♥♥
~











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