Reid@YWP

I am a poet. I take the words and I turn them on their heads until the juice runs out. It is red and sweet, like strawberries. I sit cross-legged on lilypads, watching meaning watercolor itself onto the pond. I rust like clockwork in the rain.

There was a man who worked on the corner of Bellevue and St. James six days a week, who only came out at dusk to have a smoke. I usually saw him from a distance, across from the park. He was weary, very weary.

The weeping willow shimmers, the water droplets gleaming in her sunlit hair.

A dryad floats above her, in the air.

They unify, becoming one.

In Summer, the Willow cries with joy, enjoying the sun.

I reside in a foreign land, 
An unfamiliar place 
Where I left all familiarity behind. 

I keep running, 
But my past moves faster 
Than I ever could. 

a time, there was a girl who adored space. She read pages upon pages of books about constellations and the stars, memorizing names and how many miles away they were from earth.