word feast

she feasted on words but not lately,
the days full of rushing, but when she had time 
she scrabbled with two hands down into a poem
at random, digging deep catching a few lines blindly
trusting the poet not the poem 
hoping what she caught would fill her.
hungrily scooping the images words colors feelings
into her dry soul, thanking the writer for living life

and struggling to put it on paper.
even in her hurry a phrase would stop her in her tracks 

and she'd pause a moment 

wondering whom Roethke had watched return sighs to sighing birds,

and considered how small a bird sigh might be.
the tiniest breath of air from a wee miniature beak.

...

....

She swallowed, swiped the back of her dry hand across her lips
and breathed.
she promised herself to watch for the sighs,
closed the book and entered the day.