The Year is 1855 —
Yet somehow — 2026 —
I’ve sealed myself in Timbered Air —
A Cabin — in the Sticks —
No Caller climbs the frozen Hill —
No Foot disturbs the Pine —
The World goes on — industrious —
But none of it is Mine —
I sit — and wait for Life to start —
As if it missed the Train —
As if the proper Platform stood
Just past my windowpane —
I might have walked the salted shore —
Named Creatures — blue — and mild —
Or worn a Ring — and answered to
The title — Wife — with Child —
I might have borne a Son — or two —
With Eyes like Summer Wheat —
Or stood beside a Harbor’s edge
With Salt upon my Feet —
I might have dined at crowded Tables —
Spoken — been addressed —
Instead — I court a quieter Thing —
And call the Silence — "Blessed" —
The Poet — was not asked for —
Nor chosen — as a Trade —
It crept — like Frost through windowpanes —
And would not be delayed —
So here I sit — in Pine and Ink —
Awaiting Life — to start —
And find — it started long ago —
Inside — a broken Heart —
No Husband knocks — no Infant cries —
No Ocean claims my Name —
Only the Page — in patient White —
And Breath — and internal Pain —
Perhaps — when Timber folds to Dust —
And Pulse forgets to Be —
They’ll say — She waited in a Room —
And turned it — Poetry —