Old woman who writes

There was an old woman who just had to write

She composed and erased most of the night

She did much of her work at a quarter past two

Some of her work was not even true

She wrote of sweet blossoms on crabapple trees

Of ice crystal daggers on edges of eaves

She wrote of the children she’d known in her life

And when she was younger and was a dear wife

Though much of her stories would never be heard

Wild celebrations she captured in word

She often wrote novels that stayed on her shelf

Just waiting for someone to honor their wealth

Lyrics for songs her brain penned in silence

She wrote of  man’s torment and his noncompliance

She wrote of the flowers exploding in bloom

And antics of critters in her outdoor room

She penciled the flight of a doe and her fawn

And pictured in word the escape of the dawn

She wrote of the moonbeams and how the moon rose

Of sparkling snowflakes that tickled her nose

She wrote of life’s conflicts, heartaches and ragea

And poured out her soul on the lines of the page

She wrote of God’s blessings when she was through

To prove she was grateful for each breath that she drew

By Margaret A. Swenson