My pencil penned poems
I've torn into flakes,
now a tattered jigsaw
scattered by my
gently opening palm.

Those musings.
My emotions.
That descriptive
prose passage.
And oh, the rhyme...


Time bound spindrift,
floor bound ghosts.
Each raggedy piece
soulfully falls.

Listen hard.
Can you hear
them yowling
as they flurry
and anoint my feet.

They're greeted there,
as they hurry
to the ground,
hugged there
by the mud,
stuck fast.

All motion
and all sound,

But listen on...

There's nothing.
My snow light
my voice,
it’s lost.

What's this though?
Children coming!
Walking my way!

They say
words at each other
those sisters
and those brothers 
and not seeing me
they foot stomp
and candy crush
and puddle drench
my heart.