When she would write with quill in candlelight,
she\'d sip her Beaujolais to please her muse.
And she would, too, a thought, in quiet recite;
a smile, she might, if deemed a phrase to use.
And she would choose a form to suit her mood,
some woven song of love, a ragged twill.
Whatever weave, her quest for art pursued
and woven true, a seamstress of the quill.
Be it her wont or style to twirl a phrase,
to gain the rights where feelings like to hide.
As patient as the night, her quaintly ways
in whiling words away ’till satisfied.
She\'d hasten not for verse may take its time;
she\'d sip her Beaujolais to ease her mind
and watch the candle burn and there divine
the essence of her art in hopes to find.
When of a poem and time has disappeared;
her heart and soul in verse and thus become.
In such a charm her musings commandeered,
from whence deliverance and she\'d succumb.
She\'d lay her poem to rest where ink may dry;
she\'d sip her mellow rouge in sweet delight.
She\'d wait the morrow\'s night, her heart\'s reply,
when she would write with quill in candlelight.