She had a magic pen
that wrote nonexistent script,
the ink flowed through her veins
to ballpoint hands,
and life was her paper.
The way she wrote
put clichéd words to shame,
spelling out her love and wonder,
marking beauty over
the world’s grimy manuscript.
She would tell you
she was no wordsmith,
but the way she lived and loved
was poetry.

– s. Clark