language

I want to tell you a secret

I write perhaps one page in a year, maybe less

I don't know the cadence of my life

except that there is an ebb and flow

and I don't know what comes up at shore, or when

language is difficult for me

is that irony? words are painful for me to carry

especially when

there's nothing

and no way to articulate

most things

they applaud the book but few know how to

comfort someone mourning

it is hard to plant flowers in absence

maybe all of this is just form, just freedom to

be