She awoke each morning to the smell of the dew, heavy-laden across her lawn. And each morning, she would rise and warm some bread, thick with singular grains, paste it with butter, slaver it with jam, and then, make coffee.
Piping hot, the coffee would accompany her to the back porch, where the dew continued to press deep the grass and slowly soften as the sun pulled itself into the morning sky.
Then, bellyful, she would rise and walk across the grass, through the thin line of trees that stretched themselves as canopies over the river. And there, she would, with the fingernail of one hand, open the vein of her opposite wrist, and, holding her arm above the waters, she would boldly spill ink into the rich waters.
She would stand for long minutes, watching the ink float with the current downstream, long past where the river stretched out of sight, and she would imagine those in the village far below, and those on the coast far beyond, who would drink of these ink-rich waters, and so too be filled.
She was The Poet. After giving what she had to give for that day, she closed up the flesh across the wrist by pressing it closed with the other hand, and she would then turn and walk back toward the house.
It was lunchtime, and she was famished!
(Inspired by a tweet from Mad Queen Storm)