"Poetry is a life-cherishing force. For poems are not words, after all, but fires for the cold, ropes let down to the lost, something as necessary as bread in the pockets of the hungry."  Mary Oliver  

She became a leaf on a tree, a speck of dust, a limb still attached
shining like the sun she was the light that splayed upon nature's hour
but when the shadows came, she wrote her thoughts on a binder,
and became an evening cornflower.
Hungering by the river's edge she kept her secrets inside her diary  
as she glided with imaginative desire on a silver lake of dreams
A permanent work of art inked and set aside, her words
a filament of nature's calligraphy.
Every pocket of earth described every fern and mushroom narrated,  
by the apex of her linguistic, morphemes.
As the hourglass of time sifted finely down her filtered mind,
sweet poetry was born, germinated and seeded.  
Life grows naturedly so does poetry when the heart is opened
she became part of the all-inclusive in this sweet haven,  
where the everything and the always can only be described,  
by a writer's pen and pluck.