I dream of filling pages,
but I never seem to have the words.
I dream of being clever,
to make people turn their heads
and whisper, "how did she do that?"
I want to leave them awestruck.
So I put pen to paper,
and I write.
I write for the vines
that have somehow twisted themselves
into my bones, rooted as deep as
the summer flowers that grow around me.
I write for the leaves that change colors
with every spin of the earth,
the reds and greens and oranges
that scatter underfoot.
I write for the frostiness of every December,
for my breath materializing in front of me,
for the flurries that land and sparkle
in my hair.
I write for the strange and lonely sea,
with its enormity and its big gray waves
that forever try to pull people and things in,
hoping they'll stay.
I write for time and
how it slips through fingers
as easily as sand at the beach
where dreamlands were once built.
I write for all of these different things,
hoping one day I won't fade
and my words might mean something