A room of one's own, says Virginia,
is necessary to write Shakespeare,
but is it necessary
to be happy?
What remains after the
dust kicked up by the earthquake of life
settles?  Is there anything underneath?

Perhaps Words remain.
Words to God.  Words to self.
Words to the clean, crisp air,
floating out like silent sound waves
ready to be heard
by some secret someone
in an unseen future.