Temporal existence lives between the lines leading to my emotional realm where the ending of all the stories ever written have gone to weeds, lost migrating birds, and fading blue sky. That’s not how I need to be remembered; holding those alpha-numeric chains that keep emptied fingers calm at the sides of the body. Words must not end as still as what happens after the last breath. I need keys for those locked up ideas to unleash at the bluest of blues, during the star specked night of a cattle round-up, from my perch on some heroic keyboard, and with the day predicted as perfectly as news to head ’em up and move ’em out. Let this be my epitaph. She wrote poetry.