(A poem my father wrote about me)

The Quiet One

With silky gentleness she walks.
Gliding softly as she goes.
You won't know that she's there.
No rustling of her clothes.

She spends hours in solitude
Pondering life's issues and quirks.
She questions proceedures and processes
And wonders if this or that works.

She is no stranger to tears.
She has had her share of them.
Disappointments have been known
To cause hopes to be slim.

So, in the comfort of a blanket
Often in a dimly lit room
She summons her poetic creativity
To relieve her of her gloom.

And there in natural flow
When dreams and fantasies dance,
Her divinely given gift
Gives poetry calm entrance.

In voyages of her mind
Before words are written
Imaginative journeys are made and
With poetic grace smitten.

Then she stands behind you
And you realize she is there,
Her lovely poetic inspiration
Soulfully filling the air.

Afterwards, with quiet smoothness,
Again she glides away
Toward her private haven
To write again another day.

C.F. Wilkins
01/01/08

Thanks Dad!

Home