My hand on paper
Frozen in midair
What should I write?
About the wind on my face?
The coolness of winter?
The rays in the jubilant sky?
I sit, in thought
My mind reaches
Trying to pull
From the deepest part of mind
Ideas
I think
The show last week
The blue jay sitting in a tree
Vines from our plant
Reaching up to the sky
One comes
My hand starts moving
Alive again
With joy and grace
Words appear
Sitting there
Boring looking
Black and normal
But yet
What would I do without them?
They are my lines of grace
My way of communicating
They are my language.