Little Thing I Wrote

Little thing I wrote

Everything is silent Her bed-springs creak as she sits up; The fresh November breeze tickling her spine The room is dark Her hands skillfully search for something with which to cover herself; Going through the well-practiced motions The door creaks behind her It locks smoothly as she turns to take it in; The night for which she so longs Her eyes are tired Though her face, her body, her aura, all come to life; Her entity awakening from the daily sleep She is in complete control Her mind gluttonously takes in deep spoonfulls of the stillness of it all; Her lungs greedily absorb the crisp autumn air The moon is working hard The reflection of himself portraying her path as she perceives it; The sun guiding her, though unseen An elderly man approaches His eyes linger on hers, uncertain of their paths; She peers into his soul He radiates regret Her soft, warm smile greets his with nonverbal pleasantries; Their minds meet at the definition of understanding Vexed by a sound A crack in the wall of silence robs her of her attention; With dog-like ears, she follows where they lead A stream reveals the rocks Those that slow and split the water; She loves how they control the chaos Her chest rises and falls The freshness of the water stealing her mind; Like a drug, makes her forget reality A new tree has been planted Her feet are roots, her arms are branches; She falls somberly, passively among the copes