These silent months:

No keys

Struck,

No strings

Plucked,

Or strummed,

No words strung together

To write a poem.

Said another way,

Everything that heals

Has faded away.

Yet, here I am again

Trying to make sense

Of the void.

Loss,

There is so much to lose,

We are willing to toss away now.

Have I tossed away now–

The joy of now–

Because I am afraid of losing?

Letting go, letting go, letting go…

Keep saying that,

One hundred times,

Then more.