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.