from time to time,
she exercises a quiet state of grace,
withdrawing to private place,
words unable to flow in rhyme.
she rests in a citadel bower,
safe from those who don’t know,
how to hold space for sorrow’s flow,
broken heart seeds the flower.
she cries behind the door,
for no one is on the other side,
she keeps composure on life’s ride,
it sometimes brings her knees to the floor.
outside her room she walks light,
being in the world but not of it,
her freedom known to flit,
no longer weighted she’s bird in flight.