the frost on the window
spreads like wings on a bird
my hand cools
as the warmth melts the fog away
the rare gift of marks
if anything
marks aren't made enough
at least not for good
i draw
cats
and stars
and words that i find purposeful
smiley faces
and sad faces
the frost slowly returns
erasing everything
giving me a new window
to start over
the red and white and yellow lights
of the night
blur by
under my hands
as i write
and it starts again
and repeats.
For a businesswoman, she is very kind. She is the winter giving her hand to autumn as they trade places. Autumn stands back and watches Winter do her work, covering Autumn's leaves and grass until everything is white, white, white.
i've always loved the smell of paper
and i get to decide where everything gets to go.
when i hear a sound
i'd rather see what it is
than cower and wonder
what it could be.
for a tortoise, i think i beat the hare. he ran from everything yet always won. whether it was to give up friends or to just be right. now i pass him as he naps on the side of the road. i need a nap too, though.
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