Her poetry loves her usual melancholy.
Her rhymes couldn’t even summon the sun when dark clouds lingered over her.
She just waits for the fragrance of rainwater to wash away the dirt from her tears.
The misty yet melodious pour.
A lengthy silky strand of memory that always escapes.
Heartache and hope,
rhymes and misery,
lyrics and odes.
Slowly lacing themselves to the value of who she is.
A continuing thread of love and grief.
A colorful crochet of life’s  tapestry.