By Charles M. Sumid      Copyright 2025      Written 2021

She used to write
the way peacocks walk.
Every word fanned out,
iridescent,
demanding notice.

Today she crosses out
more than she keeps.
The wastepaper basket fills
with good words
grown too loud.

Watch her write “moon”
and stop.

Just “moon.”

No silver coin,
no goddess eye.

Her early books
bristle with footnotes,
making sure you understand.
Now she breaks bread
and lets you taste it.

“I spent forty years learning to write,”
she tells students,
“and twenty more learning not to.”
They scribble this down,
missing how the silence after
holds more.

See how she reads now.
Voice worn smooth,
no performed emotion.
“Rain fell”
sounds like rain.

Critics complain
her new work lacks
density, fire.
She smiles.

In her study,
first drafts pile up,
still purple.
But revision after revision
strips them clean
until what remains
could be carved in stone.

The young poet visits,
manuscript thick.
She listens, then says
“It’s all there.”

“Now take most of it away.”