She walked the path of discontent. She fell for distant grace.

For far too long, with Aesop's Fox she scorned high sour grapes

But every haughty walk-away refused to find relief

Until exhaustion made her nap beneath the hazel tree.

Her dreams dance deep of know-not-what and unremembered loss;

Of silent crying phantoms who refuse to be made dross.

When she returned to waking life, all that she gained did fade

Except a clear and pressing need to find a hermit-cave.

And so she sheltered in herself, apart from praise and shame,

To find the things she holds most dear which outside can't contain.

Her healing search continues on. She does not seek its end

With peace her keen companion and herself her newfound friend.