LATELY
Deaths, illnesses, surgeries, work,
troubled sleep, diseases without cures,
and middle age all drive
the poems inward, where they drift,
folding themselves in upon themselves
in and in until they’re nothing
more than extra folds inside a body.
Already you have asked this body to
refold itself around new absences.
Already you have asked this body’s
tolerance, fought off its noisy plans to
crumple and shed itself of itself,
taking the poems with it.
Miriam's Well: Poetry, Land Art, and Beyond 
Oh..how I hope that you unfold those poems and set them free to float upon the breezes that flow between us all…enjoyed you poem.
Very lovely indeed. Dev has been a poet (at least at heart) since she was my older cousin of 8 or so, reading Camelot as we gathered at our grandmother’s house, awing 4-year-old me with a depth so palpable that even a young child could feel it.
❤