pieces of my mother
a life by the wayside
five years it's taken
but slowly it chips away
As the butterfly emerges
the caterpillar mourns
it astounds how
another's life can
so thoroughly
envelope
to lose one's self
in the noise
I listen for a clear
ringing of my own
small voice
once again
in the din of the world
We work in the Dark; we give what we have. Our Doubt is our passion- our passion is our task, and the rest is the madness of art. -Henry James
