And so I continued to write —

not so much for the words anymore

but to feel the connection

with my soul

at a time when real connection

was precious and rare

and words seemed to fall short.

If I couldn’t be heard

then I would listen.

I would turn frustration into

dedication.

I would take the deep sadness,

and I would hold it —

forever if necessary.

And if this tender ache could be

deepened, I would find a way.

Maybe it would lead to a new outer

reflection,

something a little more sacred

and beautiful.

Most likely, but maybe not.

It was my best shot.

It was one more last try.

One more time