If you’re looking for today’s RWP 118 poem, it’s HERE.
Placid, prim and plainest face;
eyes suggestive of wisdom,
of sadness, look steadily
at all who come before her.
Perhaps the barest of smiles.
Beside her a book; flower
in her hand. She is a book
and a flower. At sixteen
she knows this about herself.
Long years later she will know
her gift exceeds her time: Words
stitched together, found by heirs.
And for those who don’t know who the poem is about: here’s the picture.