Writing

After Robert Frost's Stopping By the Woods on a Snowy Evening

Do the see the world as a poem

Do you see it like I do?

Do the words slip through your fingers

Do they slip before you can open your eyes?

Do they slip like I did

thin veins rush through with

green blood and water. As if,

yearning for full boom.

We manifest our fear in our hands, as physical things; sometimes it pricks at our skin and leaves marks, sometimes it results in stiff fingers, cracking from a stiffened clench.

Close your eyes

Spin around

And point

Choose the felon

Choose the victim

Watch the tears fall

In joy

Gratefullness

Or

In sadness

Pain

Shrug

Because to you

The sun's glitter and

soft kisses from butterflies;

My heart fluttering.