Another's Poetry

I don't often read poetry.  Yet when I came across this particular poem, I found it to be particularly apt.

The days
were long when
she was
small

too much noise
for a heart that thrived
inside the stillness
of a softer light,
the filtered
lens of
dawn and dusk

a child that
longed for
the deckled edges
of a gentler
season,
the subtler notes of
poetry and
psalms,
the faded colors of
something
handled often
and so well-loved --
fabric frayed and
tears stained
with hope and sorrow,
comfort
and
sleep

she searched for
corners
where the gold
of lamplight
barely
reached -- yet
just
enough for
reading
Dickens and
James,
Austen and
Bronte

she sought the
strains of
DeBussy and
Barber,
leaned into the the
sorrowing
notes --
minor chords
that gave her space to
cry
fat, hot
tears that
would not come in the
bright company
of
a DJ's
choice --
the top ten
heard on
a summer's day
by the
neighborhood
pool

she found her
home in
snow falling on
still waters
a place
where
geese rose and
circled,
and
hungry
deer
tiptoed through
the pinions
as tenderly as
the
first notes
of
an adagio
for
strings

low,
sad,
and
sweet --

she
held
her breath

for this
was what she'd
waited
for

and she
curled herself
into that
quiet
moment of
grace

and the
tears
fell

as
soft
as
snow

― Kate Mullane Robertson