by Robert C. Frost

(for M.)

She floats
on wings of youth
and hides
her happiness
like it was
some kinda crime
ya know.

She once told me
in a poem:
Night's as dark as coffee
and winter is so cold,
all covered deep and darkly
by a blanket with no fold.

Oh, how I smiled
at our little light
and praised
her gift!
And I knew
she was one of us,
and I wondered
who she ripped off.

She leaves
strange little melodies
in her wake . . .

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