I first met my future

When I was twelve years old

My sister talked of her

As a mere assignment Something to be read, Then thrown away...but I found her.  My love, my light, my draw: Christina Rossetti, whose words Moved with a rhythm I never knew.  They invoked emotions from love To disdain to loss to dedication, And I learned after reading That I had found my calling.   So what? A nineteenth century Spinster penned a few lines.  Why should that affect me? Why should my "Rose" inspire me To crumble long-held opinions And uphold age-old values.... Why should she draw magic out of my fingers? Why should she haunt my dreams, My dreams that bleed onto the paper  Like melting ice cream onto a summer sidewalk? How can two people ages apart Form a bond stronger than love? How can a woman long gone be my mentor?  Who is to say what does the inspiring? Who is to say who hands off the torch? I do not deign to know.  Poetry is magic, and I Was taught by the best magician. And I will keep playing my tricks Until another takes my place, Ages, eons, eras from now.