There was talk in the community
of an extravagant Victorian home.
The paint on the texture
as white as cloud-like foam.
An essence of sweet ladies powder
dusted from her room,
delicate lace curtain-flowing affair,
passing the scents of fragrant perfume.
A piano recital on the evenings it showers,
hovering over the marine;
like lilacs and boquets of flowers.
The collection of talk in the town,
whispers of chants as ladies temper;
that a gentle woman lives on her own.
Her house had a jazzy decorative snare,
living to material expectation,
but only for her own delight,
made by her own creation.
Making silken quilts
laboring her time,
precise for each stitch and
stirring about like on an assembly line.
Late, in the quiet of night
you could hear her hilarity,
with a hint of vanity,
but mostly flarity.
Unable to afford a dowry,
the talk of the town spared in rarity.
Though she balanced her life,
did right by her neighbor;
midwifery and charity; but
there was only one that did her a favor.
she was making love at night.
Silent she was, but inside swelling
rage, holding back with might;
trying her best to restrain.
The word was said...
she had a collection of suitors,
one of them in her bed.
She reserved herself,
ignoring the talk,
till at night,
the tall one stalked.
Her face lit like the florescence of the moon,
sharing nothing with anyone except the one she called her soul mate.
Thou who has given so much to me,
give one thing more: a grateful heart.