The sky is overcast and gray.
It looks as if it is about to rain,
Gorgeous fat drops falling,
A rhythm that beats the same pattern as my heart.
I have never felt them on my delicate skin,
But I can imagine how they must feel:
Cold pinpricks of moisture.
The trees are barren.
I watched as the last leaves fell weeks ago,
When the fiery golds and reds were replaced by dull brown.
I have never touched the rough bark of a tree,
But I can imagine how it must feel:
Hard and sharp and smelling of wood, puncturing the thinness of my skin.
The grass is pale and yellow.
I prefer it in the spring, when life is new,
When the short shoots are soft and green and dainty.
I have never felt the grass,
But I can imagine how it must be:
Tickling the soles of my fragile feet.
I press my face to the icy glass of my only window,
Fogging it up with my shallow breaths.
Even that small movement sends
A sharp needle of pain into my spine.
I lean back again into the hard cushion of my wheelchair.
The fog from my breath fades too quickly,
As if I was never here,
But I reach out and draw a stick figure me
Standing in the field outside
As the edges of my picture close in and I am erased.