An American Poet

A Little Girl once held at bay
Received a call to a brighter day.
A gift was given, and received
Though hard to fathom, much less believe
No qualifications for the chore
Just a gentle nudge and an open door
Once she entered light did come
Sometimes to the point, it seemed to numb.
The flow of words always in Rhyme
Would come then linger at anytime.
She learned to capture each given thought
Each snapped picture or whatnot.
Once on paper a book would form,
And possibly prevent an unknown storm
Or maybe comfort some grieving soul
Or who knows the final toll.
That little girl is me,
Margarett Inez Bates


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