"Old age comes on suddenly, and not gradually as is thought." Emily Dickinson
Unable to sleep, the poet Marie Ponsot lay in a hospital bed one night last month trying to figure out what it was that she no longer knew. A few days earlier, she’d had a stroke. Her brain had been ransacked. Poems that she had been reciting from memory for the better part of a century had disappeared. She cross-examined herself: What, she asked, have I lost?
An interesting piece in the New York Times about a poet who needed to rediscover language after a stroke. I can't claim the poetry, but I know the feeling of struggling for words.