Written by: Beverly Crespo

It is not unusual to be saved by words,
But always miraculous.
To be saved by a woman
Whose prose brought such pleasure
Felt like springtime,
Soft and warm.

Selected syllables sent down 
To revive a wounded spirit, 
Not quite crushed, but nearly.

An island,
Surrounded by the silence
Of gelid, narrow mouths
That could not speak
Would not.

Lying dormant,
Words can get caught in the throat
And not come up again.

Isolation caused retreat,
Until hearing the sweet, strong vowels
Dropping like rain on scorched earth.

And then, Joy!
Lush and green,
The words were free again.