As I sat upon the steps of Winter
Feeling cold and grey,
The ice, it pricked me like a splinter
All my joy, it flew away.

The wind, it whipped
Blew through my hair,
The hail, it ripped,
Through frozen air.

But then through the storm
I heard a sound
That left me quite warm
And safe, and bound

For warmer days
And warmer nights
For happiness that stays
And inspires delight

So up from the cold stone steps I stood
The wind, it moaned,
But I knew I could,
And would.

Through a door,
With a window pane,
I saw a poor 
Old man with a cane.

”Come in” he cried,
And gratefully,
I stepped inside
And left the cold and pain behind.

And now you know
How I spread my wings
And stumbled upon
The likes of spring.
 

We’re all incomplete pieces of art.
Smudges on all of us.
Of meanness and sadness and hurt and anger.
And bright splotches of happiness and creativity and kindness, too. 
If I could paint portraits of all of you,
I would. 
And I would make them perfect. 
Because that’s what we all are.
Perfect.
Sure,
We might tease each other sometimes.
Because we’re just teens.
Okay fine, kids. 
And we love each other. It’s true. 
We will help each other complete our portraits. 
We will draw on them with pastels and paints and crayons and pencils.
We will laugh and create splotches of color.
And we’ll make them
Perfect.
 

I'm stuck between two pieces of river rock
I can hardly breathe but
There's beauty above me.
I try to focus on the shape up there
And not on my leaky breath
It's murky and vague
But moving quickly, like a motor but much more beautiful,
Because this is nature.
I can't do this anymore.
I let out the last of my breath, preparing for the world to blur around me.
But to my surprise, I can see the white feathers more clearly than ever.
Is the swirling substance around me 
Giving me a gift?
Or is it the creature
Floating serenely above?
Suddenly the swan pokes its orange bill into the water,
staring at me quizzically.
It seems to say,
"Are you one of us?"
My baggy clothes and stringy hair hang about my body like a soggy blanket
My foot aches with the pain of the sharp stones
But in that moment
All I can see
Is the swan.
 

Silent
Perfectly perfect
Nothing can disturb it
Falling drifts
Like ghosts from the sky
Form icy drifts 
Down below
And I am staring a white winter
When I hear the bells start to ring
I know instantly 
These can't be mere silver bells
Because this isn't some big city where there's smoke in the air and taxis are honking
This is 
Vermont
So our bells
Are beautiful
Our bells
Are golden.

Her hands
Old and pockmarked, but smooth
So carefully threading
Her work is beautiful
Her work is fragile
Fabric and machine
And needle and thread
And she's created a masterpiece

His hands
Rough and trembling
But always steady
When teaching another his craft
Fishing pole and line
Hook and sinker
And he's created dinner.

Both hands so different
Doing their own thing
But aged with the same obstacles over the years.
So similar in their eagerness to show others to follow in their footsteps.
I can't decide whose I like best
I love them both
I love their hands
And I love them. 


 

A cold, hard, grudgingly wet winter day
And you find me
On a walk
Not the most perfect choice for such a dreary afternoon
But when you've finished your homework
(There wasn't much)
And are totally unsure of what you're doing
Then a walk seems the most likely choice
So here we are
On this walk
You have spotted me,
And are unsure what I am doing
And I have spotted you
And are unsure what you are doing
However
Here we both are
On this not very well planned walk
And we have found each other.

At every school
Probably in the universe
There is a clique of kids
"Queen Bees"
Popular people who think they own the world
How do you join this 
Army?
Is there boot camp?
Or can you just join up without saying
A word?
Would you want to anyway?
I know my answer
I never want to be like the girls
Who made someone's life miserable
Never want to learn the rules of their 
Ridiculous game
But no matter what
There will be this problem
So please
Wherever you are
Make the same descision as me
And never become the people
Who can make your world fall apart
With just a few
Not-so-very-well-chosen words
But as writers we have the power
To choose our words
Carefully
And change
Our world
It's your job 
To change your world
Without being
In this club
The club of
Not-so-very-well-chosen words