morrow

"Perhaps I write for no one. 

Perhaps for the same person children are writing for 

when they scrawl their names in the snow." 

— Margaret Atwood

I stood with my toes barely over the edge of the curb

an invisible wall between me and the cars whizzing by

and suddenly everything became necessary

the drab mix of amber and toast color leaves fallen in a heap on the concrete

the draft of cool air brushing against my feet

the older woman who walked quickly trying to run only to walk again

and that moment in the middle of the morning rush hour

when suddenly the somber slate street was completely empty both ways

and I crossed in the glow of emerald lights

bobbing up and down in the wind

 Thankful for dinner last night with a childhood friend

and the absence of work ...it felt like the weekend.

 pic.one.here.