She writes until her pen drags

across the paper

and words become a drug pulling

her away to dream.

She writes of love that grew

beyond imagination,

passion that carries her away

as paint flows across a canvas.

She writes of pain, grief, loss

when a loved one dies,

of watching tomatoes ripen in the hot summer sun,

the sound of coffee burping

on the kitchen counter.

She writes about the joy of holding babies fresh from their bath.

A gift from her soldier dad

in World War II,

she writes about the dogtag

made just for her.

She writes of the smell

of Jergen’s Lotion

on her mother’s soft, cool hand

stroking her fevered face,

She writes of God, no God

thinking, not thinking

saying, not saying

of hope, no hope.

She writes of things she regrets…

sad, funny, big, small.

She writes in gratitude for all

that fills her life.

When quiet wraps her shoulders

like a pashmina shawl,

when sleep will not call her name,

in the early morning hours

she writes.

When quiet wraps her shoulders

like a pashmina shawl,

when sleep will not call her name,

in the early morning hours

she writes.