I write again. Poetry a wild woman sitting on my tongue gives a sly cackle. Words course out of my pores and fill the pages of my journal. They chatter in my ears and make me smile at their lustiness.
This had happened once before, when I read the warm, wise words of crone-poets. Invigorating, healthful drags of muse and their power to melt the calluses, cure the trust, scrub the loneliness off my soul.