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November
May 3, 2019
The hiding place of rain shivers underneath my
cooled skin, reminding me of the crisp
November day.
A whisper sounds like harsh hail hitting the
windshield of the bus in the midst of the
night.
If you toss sadness to the wind, it will return as a
warm breeze running through your hair - unexpected.
The shape of the past fits crumpled up inside my
over-worn distressed blue jeans.
At the top of tomorrow waits a screaming crowd,
ecstasy filling the hearts of those who are
no-longer lost.
© Ainsley L.
Waterford, MI
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