All my words are spent, these treasures I gathered over the years.
I’ve spent them along with gestures, minutes, ink, and ball point pens.
I’ve only unintelligible whispers and heavy silences, things of a cryptic
Slip-through-the-fingers nature left in this chest that once held
Glittering rubies, diamonds, gold coins, crowns ‘n things…
But, oddly, I find being a poor woman isn’t such a thing–
Not such a thing to weep or gnash teeth at; not at all so
Dreary with drama as I once blindly believed–because
Within this Nothing is a hidden wonderful Something, I suspect
That empty spaces though appearing fearful to eyes doubt-clouded
Are actually precious coves of unimaginable riches in which
Dreams that once faltered and helplessly fluttered take
Root and wings here, dig deep and soar, grow both lifting up and down,
Stretch stretch stretch like an expanse of endless ocean and galaxy,
Where all my spent words find peace and rest, building some new semblance.