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... Now... Time bound spindrift, floor bound ghosts. Each raggedy piece soulfully falls. Tearful. 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, stops. But listen on... There's nothing. My snow light insights, 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.