boots crunching on the first frost. it was cold, but you lay down on the ground anyway, under those bare drippy-branch trees stripping down for the winter.the wind rustles your white skirt, pressing it up against your ankles. you are the frost on the ground, the stinging flakes falling on your eyelashes. do you learn from a stranger?
6 comments:
This is beautiful.
I very much like this, especially the last sentence.
You are working in a new way, and I like it.
lovely, Maya.
lovely
kinda straddles the line between poetry and prose. nice!
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