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She thinks how yellow wallpaper
would sunshine the parlor,
cast gold from the bottle
until it glows like peach brandy.
Fresh rosemary
will sweeten the sauce, she says,
but words ricochet
from a razor'd tongue,
words to make a poet weep.
A lady never talks of shame
during the symphony.
Leave a little space
at the window, won't you?
Fresh herbs smell so pure
surely they will soften the air.
So small as she has become,
some night, when yellow dreams
make her strong and alive,
the maestro will close the tragic tale
and she will slip through the crowd
and into the night.
by C. Tilley-Williams
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C. Tilley-Williamsresides in central Louisiana with her husband and
fellow-poet, D.E. Williams, and two of their four children. Carol publishes
the
quarterly e-zine, The Writer's Quill, and her poetry and prose have been
published internationally, both electronically and in print. Her current
projects include her first book of poetry, due out in 2000 by PoetWorks Press.
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