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
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