Once upon a time
she went to write; doubts galore
beset her days, nights:
whether to write; what;
where to start; and most vast,
why do that to herself?
One day she went out
to see the world and saw just right
there'd be no writing
unless and until
she gave up what she ought say
Word would elect itself
from a place beyond
her sight or saying, farther
still than she could shout
So she waited shy
with the patience of dry bone
to be reborn as word
on white heron feet,
in hummingbird wings or ways
of the great horned owl
Tiny to the touch
word did one day inhabit
her frail fingered hands,
did make an ink blot
of her mind and of her soul
an ink well so deep, God
did dwell there alone
where she did write without dare
her days' remainder
