Perspective.

Ribbons and Bows--A chord she's once known.

The chords of the past

strummed on her guitar.

Dancing, laughing, crying...

 the very start.

 The faded jeans 

worn material of which

memories and emotions embedded

quietly in each stitch. 

The falling apart novel

that lies open...

page 46 on her desk.

The pages sighs softly

happy for once to be at rest.

--

The brown leather of suitcase

now propped up with her hand

the worn blue jeans

packed in and crammed.

The crisply folded 

yet browned plane ticket

lies heavy in her pocket,

 a life lost within it.

Now those baby blue curtains

that she has grown to hate and love

pulled gracefully down 

with a simple tug...

And now as she sits

watching her childhood come to an end

she pulls that same old guitar

from underneath her bed.

4 A.M. and a Fairytale.

my little fairytale

entertains itself in me

prying.

it dances lightly and lingers

staying for a while

and then departing.

as daybreak enters

my little fairytale

seems to have 

come back.

it has fallen asleep

and yet has grown.

elaborated and enchanted itself

in my presence. 

twelve hours--

and my little fairytale has returned.

the soft wings of a tomorrow

hope for the otherwise unsure.