Cheney Free Press -

There was an old woman who just had to write

She composed and erased most of the night

She did much of her work at a quarter past two

Some of her work was not even true

She wrote of sweet blossoms on crabapple trees

Of ice crystal daggers on edges of eaves

She wrote of the children she’d known in her life

And when she was younger and was a dear wife

Though much of her stories would never be heard

Wild celebrations she captured in word

She often wrote novels that stayed on her shelf

Just waiting for someone to honor their wealth

Lyrics for songs her brain penned in silence

She wrote...