201

Almost one year ago to the date exactly,
But in another year and in another life,
She remembered a tiny stream of consciousness
When she was single and not yet a wife,

A place where she wrote down anything
To an audience, loyal and few
Rekindling a need in herself,
She sits and types something new.

TO SEE IF

She still has something left to say,
Or a feeling left to feel,
To know her breath, hair, skin and bones
Are alive, well and real

Not to loose track of things she's thought
So many now, in all these days,
So many voice, places, tastes
But only so many ways
To love.

a woman's work is never done