from p.4 on Mon., Sept. 21st

A bright waxing-crescent moon
illuminates cooled pavement,
inspires laughter and sponaneity.

Carelessly, they run and dance
through chilling sprinklers,
wavering grass.


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The sun taking up my whole view.
Butterflies gather in my stomach.
A rocky bus ride as the wind blows.

Waiting for my turn,
we line up light sheep
for the finish-line.


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Driving, listening, the world is going
by.

The breze from the dusty box sweeps my face,
my hairs find little tiny knots,
light rays burn my perfect petaled skin.

Aren't we all flowers?

The car stops.


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Brush strokes.

Cover the old.
Create the new.

Brush Strokes.

Reminiscent memories,
specifically of you.

Brush strokes.