I sat before my mother poet
And watched her write her single duets.
Her pastels paced the page with Grace
And each line fell in pleasant place.

She looked upon my puzzling brow
And wondered what the lines did say.
So I said they wanted to know
How a duet by one poet might play.

She gave her dimpled smile and said:
‘I do not write alone instead,
An Angel from God writes with me-
And one that only I can see.’

I pondered over this statement
As I walked out of her presence
But couldn't discern what she meant
For at that time it made no sense.

But now I smile, with her in view,
As my own Angel gives me clue.
Then asks my dream son by my side:
'A single duet?' His eyes grow wide.

Then answer I in Graceful tone:
‘This may not seem a duet to be
But I write not these poems alone-
An angel from God writes with me.’