Where She Wrote

 Where she wrote her "i" she would write it small.
Where she spoke her mind she would apologize.

She said, "You scolded me for grammar.
    i was eight years old.
    A good man's daughter,
    i listened too well.
    i heard you speaking rules of where i belong,
    till what i had heard became my heart."

Where She Wrote

Bob Komives

She wrote beautiful words as Shakespeare's daughter,
painted beautiful landscapes as nobody taught her.
Then she beat us up our mountainside
where we loved her so much
we beat her back down.

She said, "i thought you deeply loved me.
    i was age sixteen.
    A good man's student,
    i listened too well.
    i heard you whisper me my extra credit
    for what i learned of life in your bed."
   
She painted beautiful peaks as John Muir's daughter,
played beautiful guitar as nobody taught her.
Then she beat us up our river run
where we loved her so much
we beat her back down.

She wrote, "Please write, and please forgive me.
    i was twenty-four.
    A good man's lover,
    i tried not to hear,
    yet i knew our trade before you came and left;
    a sweet good-bye gets me your address."

She played beautiful chords as nobody taught her,
wrote beautiful songs as Shakespeare's daughter.
Then she beat us up our ladder steps
where we loved her so much
we beat her back down.

She sang, "Mister, I beg your pardon,
    but at thirty-two,
    a skeptical woman,
    i will run away
    if you try too hard to bring me happiness.
    For i trust my sadness more than you."

She left us her words and water-color landscapes,
and those beautiful songs that no one taught her.
But at forty years
--an old man's daughter--
she beat us to where our sadness starts
when she beat us up this barren hill
where we love her so much
we carry her down--
where we love her so much
we listen within
    to hear
    what she wrote
    on our hearts.

Bob Komives :: Fort Collins © 1999 :: Where She Wrote :: ,9902