|Gorgeous photo by Annamalin Photography, via here.|
walking the brick ledge with the juniper
pressing daintily over,
smelling sour like bodies,
pricking my legs pointedly.
At seven, there was still a chance
that the umbrella I held could sail me down softly from any height,
that when I called the wind, it would come.
At seven, there was no need for second chances.
*I don't know if that qualifies as a poem or just a tidbit, but there it is either way. I found it in one of the many half-started journals lying around our house. Not sure when I jotted it down. Probably last winter. Not quite sure about the wording of the ending.