A stream once taught her how to write

while swirls around rocks

and an unstoppable route compelled by summer rains’ plenitude

captured her senses

and they became one.

Not genius but a willing student

hungering for meaning

and manna found among nature given

grateful for significance and its gratuitousness

discovered for the mere seeking.

No label was needed then, save to be

and words were utter dictation of what was.

But gone are the days

when she found her voice in the wind blowing through tree branches

and invisible wings whispered at her back.

How long will this last?

She’s not in charge

of a heart arrested by time

lost within a body

with rhythms of its own.