Lady in White
I remember well the struggle for
To find my writing voice
When stories that I wrote for them
Were rarely of my choice.
I wanted so to find the garden,
Rich and evergreen.
Of words shown fresh in pain and love,
Of a beauty rarely seen.
A story that I covered then,
A soiree far up the hill.
Society page attraction was,
Of people who were not real.
That night I had to dress the part,
To look the dapper-sort.
A noose drawn ’round my neck too tight,
And pants that were too short.
From my door I made my way,
As six bells heard their chime.
The sweetened ring from Mother’s clock,
Preserved like aging wine.
Eager yet to see inside,
This mansion on the hill.
But not the giddy sycophants,
The ones who were not real.
My head was aching from the walk,
My vision slightly blurred.
A night near fallen covered land,
My thoughts of darkness stirred.
Awakened though was I, it strange,
My eyes could barely see.
A vision of abundant thought
And rich fertility.
I crossed the entrance full aware,
My thinking glassy clear.
To find the center of this home
And life that welled from here.
A siren song, it beckoned me,
Still focused ill my sight.
A woman stood in a gossamer gown,
And all shown through was light.
At center floor she stood aglow,
Below a painted dome.
She talked to one and gave ‘way her light.
A soul found then its home.
Perfection met them one by one,
Ambling through the room.
The words she spoke did work an art,
A grace born of the womb.
My voice gained clear, my sight restored,
In light I saw the truth.
Her words filled mine with nascent love,
Extension of my youth.
The world felt new and evergreen,
A pristine Eden place.
I saw the guests as people now,
Each one had a face.
My writing voice was born that night,
And flows she from my pen.
The words she spoke did work the art,
Of life begun again.
Levi Hill — Copyright 2002