To the soft, supple pine boughs refracting winter light,
To the white-tailed deer who has come upon me as
Easily and unknowingly as
I have come upon him,
I begin a story
While I walk.
Later
I will not remember
The sweet nothings
That write themselves
Across my heart.
Not exactly.
I will remember
How good the writing felt,
How those lost words
Seal my love now
As they do every morning
When I begin a story.
When I can
I will perhaps search for those words
And make some kind of use of them.
One Single Impression
Sandy Carlson Social