She was one of those gifts
who turned wisdom
into a batch of butterflies.
Treated a puppy whining
at the door as the
Queen of England.
Made lessons fit in
pretty little pill box stanzas
that rendered
a point digestible,
but still a point.
Her mouth was
a moving quill
that trembled in
emotion’s arms,
a drug-bust for honest,
a slip-stitch
for stray threads.
She scraped coal
off burned toast
with a remarkable lack
of condescension
lyrics cannot imitate—
but if they don’t try,
so much will be lost.