Reid@YWP

My soul

is the sea-skimming air

that whistles through young children’s shells,

mimicking siren calls

It is

the hurricane gusts

I existed as a precocious young girl who lived only in the context of her own mind. 

I pranced over to the neighbor’s yard to gather rose petals for the fairies’ dresses,

     The lump in my throat grows slowly as I hang onto a borrowed, too-large gray sweater for dear life. Small portions of golden potatoes and thinly-cut pieces of steak au poivre steam gently on the dinner table.

Search for the feeling you found so long ago 

Slow down the days 

Slow down the minutes that turn into hours and years 

Take a chance to live in the moment 

I have searched

For years to find

The blueprint

That people have tried

Oh so hard to follow

It is now that I realize

There is no blueprint

No one gets to design me

And be the architect