I wondered if there was anything original left,
if there was anything more for me to say and contribute,
if the Austen's and the Wordsworth's and the Oliver's had taken it all
and left nothing for me, no words left to say.
But I woke up the other night to hail pounding on my window,
flashes of lightning squeezing their way between the spaces in the blinds,
terror pounding through my heart.
I held tight to Kevin's hand and he smoothed my hair back sleepily,
whispering over and over,
"It's okay. It's okay. It's okay."
I fell asleep again, and woke to the brightest morning
and summer, welcoming me into its warmest rays
as if to apologize for my fear that night.
With all of those small moments of fear that are calmed with love,
there will never be a shortage of my words.
There will always be something new to speak.