Anon

In some eccentric little nook or cranny lives
An elderly lady with rocking chair and crochet hook
My irrevocably whimsical secret
Is the sum of unkempt writing held
In a leather bound notebook

And she is leaving from home unknown
To a place that I imagine as green
Leaves silently pool on still water
The type of place where time is still
And our fumbling little minds are at awe
That tree is breathtaking , so indescribable ...
so tall

And through my writing I can't claim
That two hearts binded just the same
To disclose your soul is a great betrayal
To lies by which we live our lives
To find somebody to read the truth
To nod their head and say I know
You, if hands don't meet but hearts combine
That is greater to these humbled eyes

And though she is gone she is
Swamps and love
And she is to me
No longer anon