Some days, someone stays late
Not to write
But to sort things out-
A messy house
A healthy meal
And a tiny fellow to rear.

In early dawn someone wakes
Not to read, nor gather thoughts
To write a piece of poem
But strength for all the chores-
From toasting breads
And scrambling eggs,
To determining some life choices
And more.

Sometimes she gets drunk
Not with words nor with wine
But of thinking
Where time has gone
For quite a while
A dead poet has lived within her
For so long.