I failed to write last night,
absorbed in The Silent Girl.
I woke, thinking of the girl —
well, the small woman —
an author who spoke of her first
million-dollar advance
recalling her interest in Texas,
her studying frontier graves,
and her kindness to me.
I’ve lived most my life in tiers,
above most folk, below a few.
Tess Gerritsen epitomized the peak,
but she’s nice, kind,
a person I can know
and real.