“The Lost One”
There are so many kinds of me
Indeed, I cannot say
Just which of many I shall be
Tomorrow, or today.
Whence are they–princess, witch or nun?
I know not ; this I know :
The gravest, gentlest, simplest one
Was buried long ago.
Wrapped in the faded pride it wore,
It slumbers, as is fit,
And nothing tells the name it bore
Or marks the place of it.
But all the other kinds of me,
They know, and turn aside,
And check their laughter soberly
Above the one that died.
-Karle Wilson Baker, 1878-1960
“Pen and Ink”
What will she write of when there are no more tears?
Perhaps the list will wane
But wouldn’t it be lovely if it grew?
Think of the wonders if the paper could just unravel
And the lengthy sea of words would cascade down
So far that when it hit the bottom it curled round’ itself
You will never know if you always choose the same pen and ink.
–Kate Sherbo, 2013