THE CHORIST

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Poem about a hard working, salt of the earth chorist and her relationship with song

Her fingers roughed by soap


Her patience waned and roped


Her smiling strict and rare

Her greying eyes and hair

 

Her words in tiny barks


Her need for countless drafts


Her wisdom hiding, sharp


Her one off tired laugh


Her muscles worked and strained


Her blouse in sweat, part stained


Her nails are pale and broken


Her skin is red and blotching

 

Her love warrants this drive


Her care commands her miles


Her favours leave out debit


Her meekness her sung credit


Soft voice, gaze lost in song


Little wren, no fierce falcon


Hands crossed delicately


She’s moved and moves surely


She floats, dreams, whispers, wonders, observes, learns, grows, wrestles, survives, cries, saves

 

The chorist radiates the Trinity


- Letitia Prescott

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