by Clara Mae Gregory
Imprisoned between percaline covers
quickened words rest in silent form.
He opens her book and discovers
her story written in a foreign tongue.
Still, he tries to read the words
although he can not understand
until at last, he turns the page
and gazes upon her face's image.
With deep emerald eyes and golden tan,
her story's riddled with bad and good.
He could read it in her wrinkles
and a love revealed
in a smile he understood.
Posted on 05/17/2009
Copyright © 2020 Clara Mae Gregory
|Member Comments on this Poem|
|Posted by Philip F De Pinto on 05/17/09 at 02:19 PM|
reading this, streaks a tear down my cheek.
|Posted by Kris Mara on 05/18/09 at 12:16 PM|
oh this is just beautiful...
|Posted by James Zealy on 05/18/09 at 04:40 PM|
That is love in its truest form, one who does not understand exactly what is read, but loves all the pieces put together. Lovely poem