She sits in the parlor,
Drapes tightly drawn,
Lillies of the Valley wilting in the vase
Writing frantically
Letters to a secret lover
Which she never posts
And mediocre poems
No one will ever read
Tying them carefully with a red ribbon
Placing them cautiously in her treasure box
She keeps it under her bed
Silent lyre straddling a chair
Muted long ago but still strumming in her head
Without benefit of her tender fingers
She only looks to be alone -
In her mind there is company
Her heart never died to a drumroll on the battlefield
She never buried him on the hill by the church

Backhandedly she wipes her greying wisps
From her perspiring forehead
Her amethyst ring sparkling in the candlelight
Only tangible symbol of her love remaining
Mumbling something to herself
Slight smirk riding across her lips
Licking to seal forever into an envelope
And the maid brings in the tea
She sits and stares sipping slowly from a china cup
Eyes, once full of moon, reveal her playing memory
To look at her, one sees autumn years
But inside Katherine is forever in spring
She presses a napkin to her thin lips
Forty seasons before they were full with passion
It is only noon but resembles midnight
For Katherine it is always a long day
For Katherine it will always be May
For Katherine love is not dead

2000 poetheart

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