This is how she came to know he was Troubadour,
She had loved fellows of music, letters, substances, and substance.
not quite men, yet.
She listened to their odes to women,
Just as lovesome as anything else she had heard.
Love is effortless, but not always loving of itself.
At least there was content.
but troubadour’s don’t flee but rather
they incline to persue.
Perhaps it was a simple matter of time.
Some move through it more quickly than others.
She looked 150 years younger than she probably was.
(and still she felt she looked too old! ha!)
but, he had gotten it just right, at least in her eye.