Writing

people sleep 

in beds

in graves 

laid down by death's sweet glave 

and when the songbird spreads its wings 

some will wake when morning sings 

but others still will slumber on 

a gust of cold wind 

leaves burnished by the new fall

time to bake cookies  

I'm sorry for screaming so loud,

Except really I am not,

Because how am I supposed to stay quiet, 

When this fire still burns hot.

I wander through the woods. The day is cool and dry, with a wind blowing that smells of wood and fallen leaves. The bracken has begun to brown, though the Joe pye weed and goldenrod still stand strong.

Breathe. 
In. Out. 

A calm breath, 
a solid moment stuck 
in the middle of chaos.

Count to a number you call 
lucky. Every number is lucky to somebody. 

In a chaotic world 

of eight billion people, 

each hidden away 

in their own 

separate lives, 

be remembered for 

being the person 

who brings others joy,