The Essayist

She often wrote well into night

Pen to paper by lowered light

When color faded from the day

Words would dance like a cabaret of birds in flight

Most of the stories with her name

Would never bring her much acclaim

This knowledge never stopped her pen

Writing prose again and again, without the fame

A deep love of the written word

Allowed the quiet girl be heard

She bared her soul upon the page

The lady’s passion grew with age, quite undeterred