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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