In secret, she lamented, poetic.

Her book was printed by her son once she was much older.
I keep it close and love the pages as they settle between my fingers,
her words marking me as they’d sprung from her internal world—
exquisitely simple reflections.

We exchanged letters for a time,
sharing our love of rhythm and rhyme.
When her eyesight slipped away,
she still asked, “Are you keeping up with your writing?”

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