her poetry
thick with black
ink and heavy hand.
foreboding with each
lovely stroke
of metaphor and image.
how well you know
the ending of her,
the middle too.
how strange to see
her photo, so
pretty in form,
her hair, the smile.
the dress a flower
in bloom. the genius
of her brief
and tragic life
captured on these
pages that you read
and reread in your
own dark night.
you want more of her,
but can't imagine
why, or if it was
even possible
to burn so brightly
any longer than
what she did.
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