Little did she know when she started to write
at the age of forty-five, that something wonderful
would come of it.
She found such delight in what she wrote,
that she did it every day,
sometimes forgetting to sleep,
forgetting to eat, or watch the news.
She lost track of time,
but gained a sense of herself.
She was so full of poetry,
she was like a river after the spring rains,
full to overflowing.
There were tales to tell, and truths, too,
so that the poetry spilled out of her,
flowing from her pen onto the paper,
the essence of poeming delighting her heart,
and nourishing her soul.