She opened my eyes to the power of words:

A finely turned phrase,

An image painted on the canvas of the mind’s eye.

In her solitude she found herself,

Her pen speaking the truth of her reality.

Through her words she opened the door;

Opened the hidden gates of discovery and healing.

Her poems called to my young heart:

Espousing the deep connection I felt with nature,

Mirroring the darkness in the deepest places,

Soothing the lonely spirit.

Now in my solitude I find myself;

I create my own truth,

I pen my own soul.

I write to live, I write to survive

Just as Emily Dickinson did so many years ago.

There is no meaning without a pen in my hand,

No drain for the emptiness,

No way to communicate the vibrancy of the world I see,

No bridge between the artist’s world and reality

But through a poet’s eye.