March 24, 2011


The light combed through her hair, the reddish-brown of each strand glimmering and fluttering. It was a spring-but-it-feels-like-summer kind of day, the sun barely brushing the top layer of her skin. The dash of chill that wrinkled the air (taut with warmth) rippled and fell away: the world moved slowly past, not knowing, not wondering, beautifully ignorant.


Apoorva Chowdhary said...

I like this poem a lot. Especially "beautifully ignorant".

Beth Kephart said...

I like beautifully ignorant, too.