She led from the heart allowing curlicue rivers to flow outward, reaching, touching. Sometimes her grace was returned with a gentle caress, a floating leaf, a distant caw. Other times, her heart's river went unanswered. In the silent void, she waited for the smallest response, the slightest echo. Closing her eyes, she led again from the heart, another push outward, another intention set free. As divined, a river, not her own, responded. She opened her eyes to meet another's.
The year she stopped eating and working and talking, she devolved, draping cloth over mirrors, not brushing her teeth. She went from Emily Dickinson to Sylvia Plath to Anne Sexton, reading their work over and over, copying their words. A day came. She reached for a pencil... cracked egg, hot griddle. Her first poem filled two pages. She now eats oatmeal and wanton soup from the Chinese restaurant.