Why now do I find I'm capable of putting pen to paper to stroke? Was it simply your gift to me? Was it something given to me by you so deep I could never find words to complete. If I ask the question a thousand times and if my writing could cure you of all pain, I'd write and write and write and write 'til decaying fingers turned green then black then fell off into the dark of the night. Then, I'd learn to write with my left hand and then toes, and though crooked and scraggly the lines formed would align, I'd write until I could write no more, but I'd find a way around again because the answer to my rhyme, my riddle is you. You are why I write. Why I live.
Love,
Robyn
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