Cynthia Kopp 09/21/45 - 03/05/96

I have sculpted no marble,

no carved stone,

Nothing special speaks for me.

I have a song or two,

some stories

one recipe, three good friends,

several shelves of books, brown eyes

a passion for piano,

a way with children.

I know the first lines of a hundred poems,

the chorus to fifty barroom rags.

I can misquote two hundred writers,

smile when I don't want to,

cry when I must.

I am given to unwarranted opinions

spiteful jealousies, hopeless ideals.

I trust myself to pick flowers,

cherish laughter,

burn the roast.

I can promise hesitance,

guarantee ambivalence,

pray for grace.

I can tell you of my love.

I cannot guess its worth.

by Cynthia Kopp

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