Edna St. Vincent Millay
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Dirge Without Music
I have been writing down notes everywhere since Y. died. At some point, I will be able to make sense of things. There is something profoundly sacred in what happened, and right now, I am riding the waves of the universe, allowing myself to float. Eventually, there will be a spilling of ink. My sense is that once I begin to write about all of this, there will be no stopping.
This is the poem I'm clinging to today.
Death | grieving | memorial | Edna St. Vincent Millay
