Friday, November 12, 2010

Quietly he sat between the folds of a tree trunk

.

As my little hooves begin to scramble. And they scrape the half frosted ground that is melted by mid-day. Words are not sentences with you, but smoke signals. And your streamer of ash twirls upwards and disipates. I fell asleep with my legs in the air.

2 comments:

Kim said...

I'm writing you a letter right now.
I'm kinda, totally in love with your words.
x.x.xxxx

andie said...

could your writing be any more beautiful?? ♥