The Writer’s Voice-

Long  Unused

Rusty

Dusty Like An Old, Hard Book

Pages Unturned

Tight Binding.

Like Ink

From A Just-Found

Pen

Sputters

Misses

Then

Flows Smoothly Across Paper.

Or

As an Unopened Room

Again

Opened; Entered

Found Just

As Years Before

The Door

Creaks.

The Writer’s Voice

Lain Dormant

Thru

Winters, Springs

Thru Seasons

of

Quiet

Listening.

It Speaks Again

Familiar

As

An Old Friend-

Life’s Kindred.

The Writer’s Voice

it is her Own of Years Down Ages,

of Scribblings on Paper

In Journals

Thru Notebook

After

Notebook.

Like that Unused Pen-

Suddenly-

It flows.

Still —

The Same

After

All These Years.