The ghosts that have her now as haunt
perhaps are of her will and want
arising as invented dance
to chimes that tolled the choice and chance
of moments now that might have been
in days that will not come again
and nights to which she can't return
where so much wiser she might yearn
to strengthen roots in troubled earth
that was the nurture of her birth
and youth as much as it could be
in circumstance she could not see
until as shoot she rose to bloom
and sensed the seed awaiting womb
and saw where life must dare prevail
against the odds that it will fail
and thus embarked for points unknown
so unaware that she would own
the pain that rush to aging earns
in trial that by error learns
"if only...", as translucent trace,
remains forever ghost to face.
Portly Bard: Old man. Ekphrastic fan.
Prefers to craft with sole intent
of verse becoming complement...
...and by such homage being lent...
ideally also compliment...
Ekphrastic joy comes not from praise
for words but from returning gaze
far more aware of fortune art
becomes to eyes that fathom heart
The Ekphrastic Review
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