The door jingles and a new customer
enters.
She's a girl, a reader
two aging books stacked,
under one arm they're tucked.
A little black notebook is one,
in the cover peeking lies a snow white swan.
By the window oh so slowly she is drawn
I only wonder if her feathers are the texture of dawn.
YOU ARE READING
I named her Africa #Wattys2015
PoetryI didn't mind if my fingertips were rusted with coffee grounds, or if my palm still hosted bread crumbs, I reached out my hand across the table, and you squeezed it but proved me wrong. My mind was spiraling, my heart, unstable. ____________________...
