To the girl I knew six Octobers ago, it hurts to see the way your sweater matches your eyes, because I know they turn gray sometimes like the storm cloud you zip up over your shoulders. You haven’t found the right language yet, so you speak in knotted strings and layered sleeves, but that’s okay. I wish I could tell you that you are heard, but there’s a steadiness in my voice you wouldn’t recognize.
Do you remember it? The day I first said I’m weak—it took a week to say it all; I misspeak about the thoughts in my mind, and I had to rewind when the wheels would squeak. I’m not derailed, just a bit misaligned. I know my head should unwind, but I’m afraid of critique.
She has a bookshelf for a heart and a current of ink for veins. Her skilled insight and works of art are creativity’s sweet gain. She’ll write you into her story with the quick quill inside her brain.
From between dark cedars and whiskered pines, spring steps out. In the blush of redbud tree’s purple blooms, wildflowers burst forth from hidden winter tombs. Against the backdrop of elegant purple, trees about don their veils so white. Soft leaves appear, dotting green on the maple trees. The spring is here.
This is golden day: a single moment that lasts for hours. I am standing in this field of brown, crisp grass and stubborn wildflowers, where the scent of summer stays. My feet are rooted in the dark earth. My eyes are closed, but my mind is open, absorbing the liveliness of this world.