More Than We Can See...(so be kind, my friend)

That brazen hill once wore the fragile frill of Queen Ann’s lace

That frozen field by snow concealed was once a sea of gold

The barren tree, on winter’s lea doffed of Her green-spun grace

Is not all that she seems to be, that woman bent and old

Was once the girl that turned the heads of Casanovas past

Was once a mama’s pride and joy, a husband’s heart and soul

A mother to the girls and boys that grew up way too fast

A fairest-of-all-flowers before winter took its toll

That hoary head once red-blonde-chestnut-raven tossed, carefree

Is but the crown of wisdom on the girl she used to be  

© Janet Martin