he creates the scene from within his brain.
Around her face, her curls did frame
The pouty lips of tiny Jane,
Strawberry as her mother‘s mane,
First little born.
Tumbling she skinned her little knee,
On skates the kind with an old skate key,
Her curls dropping on her forehead be,
On a spring morn.
In high school she met Jimmy Jack,
Jimmy carried her book back pack,
Cute and tall, he did not lack
Desire to stay around.
College, they both went away,
Thought love would die - it had its day,
But holidays kept fire to stay,
The old church had grand window frames,
Handcarved, imported, where blushing Jane
Stood for her portrait in the rain, to
Wedding March sound.
By Swampetta (SWAMPETTA@aol.com)