She sits across from me with
tousled brown hair,
calico dress, and
rosy cheeks fair,
painted eyes,
and turned up nose,
no shoes or paint,
upon her toes.
Lace petticoat
helps cover her legs.
Arms stretched out,
a hug she begs.
She must be mute;
She does not hear.
We communicate with telepathy,
my charming muse and me.
Words, unspoken,
come streaming through.
Phrases old and
sentences new;
a thousand things
I feel her say.
Yet unnamed, even to
this day.
Perhaps the time
has arrived for
giving my muse
a proper handle,
Perchance she’ll
know I love her more
than ever I loved
my muse before.
She’s up in years, that
Brings me to tears,
When I think of
the love that made her.
I think I’ll call her…
‘Peggy Jean’.

© 2017 Kathleen J Kidder
8/5/2017 Hour Twelve – Half Marathon