My Master Was A Poet

My Master was a poet

she I did not know

long before when I was born

her magic it did flow.

I read her words when I was young

they flowed along the page

she told me of a different time

a wondrous, ancient age.

My Master was a poet

from her I've learned a lot

I've learned to write of living

and of loving as it's sought.

From time to time I've wondered

if our spirits may be kindred

so after doing so much searching

my discovery was splendid.

My Master was a poet

her blood runs through my veins

it's been two hundred years or so

her spirit still remains.

I've searched details of images

I hoped to find some hint

of if she may have wondered too

how my time is spent.

but there is no recollection

of when our souls have passed

I only know someone is near

as I struggle with my craft.

My master was a poet

her words still mark the page

and as I type these simple thoughts

her hand reaches through the age.

If I listen closely

I can hear her quiet whisper

my master is a poet

and with whom I draw this picture.