Two late - a love note from St. M and St. R

  

 Too late

I opened the pages

of a new to me book

written by 

an author

I loved.

I was in a hurry

to get to the

pages that 

I 

just 

learned

existed.

            Too late.

I rushed through

the forward

greedy to get to the main event.

But the words

cut me

to the quick.

            Too late.

"Who's writing this? I know this voice."

The tone, the hope, the wisdom 

slowed

me

down

to        savor            every               word.

            Too late.

I knew it was you.

You write these words

like they are just for me.

You write your words

so I hear your voice

in my head.

            Too late.

The

writer

is/was 

dear to me.

            Too late.

She is/was dear to many.

I wish I could write, is instead of, was.

But, was is, what it is.

            Too late.

St. M, thank you for asking St. R to write this.

I know you are having a rollicking time. Writing, laughing and walking arm in arm.

            Too late.

Thank you for leaving beautiful words,

that feel like a love note

just for me.

            Too late.

You two knew, 

to leave me a surprise

for a sad day 

a too late night

and

my 

no-longer

weary

 heart.

            Two late.

Dedicated to Madeline L'Engle and Rachel Held Evans

Copyright August 2020 Tara Lamont Eastman