Writing

When I was a little younger than I am now, 

I went home after school and wrote until bedtime.

That was enough to take me into the stratosphere. 

I'd play in the cloud for hours and hours.

it only gets their attention when it’s thousands dead

that one little boy had hopes , dreams , and fears , smiled when he was happy and when sad , cried tears

“land of the free” but we watch our step, so we don’t get taken away, and our rights are slowly started to fade

let the ice melt
let them lose their pelts of hate and coldness
let them see

let them see the horror they cause,
turning neighbors into enemies

the morning arises. the grandma praying for her day the teenager walking his mini poodle thinking about the schoolwork he has

the teacher arriving to work planning her lesson

Isn’t it beautiful?
Soil in your cuticles,
the sun ever so bright—
not one day does it forget to shine.

The visible dew,
the sky, oh so blue,
we call it spring.