Written in November of 2008, probably late at night. This is another from that time period of my life I am okay with sharing.
I have yet to count,
How many pages are left,
How many have been tinkered with,
Or how many were blank beforehand.
Because a page is no longer that once it’s been personalized,
It has a spirit branching off of its creator at that point.
A finger print…
Left in ink,
not dripping, sorrowful ink.
But thoughtful.
Calculated.
Primal, pure, and
I wrote this with another piece I no longer respect as much in August 2008.
I used to walk this street every morning.
The long slow wind down my parent’s street to the bus stop.
In the spring the crab apples would fall to the ground,
They’d get all squished and I’d step over them.
Something about a flattened, oozing, crap apple – never invited my foot.
And now I sit here,
On this exact spot I would stand.
It has an energy,
this place.
I feel a comfort here,
It may be because I spent every morning watching the sun rise before I got to school
On this
Exact spot.
I wish I had actually appreciated that sight back then.
During the winter, before everyone turned off their water sprinklers,
Water would run down my street and gather in a shallow pool at the bottom.
By morning it would all freeze in a thin sheet.
I’d rush to the bus stop before everyone else!
Just so I could break all the ice on my own.
It had the most gorgeous texture to it,
Sometimes different shades of white would be bursting in shattered lines all across it.
The crunch the ice made when my foot made contact, was extraordinary.
It echoed within my eardrums in a soft light crinkle.
I appreciate many of the odd little things I would do for self-satisfaction when I was younger.
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