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 
to someone.