smallest bird
April 10th, 2006
And when it stops, all I’ve got is me. I feel small and quiet.
Books and paintbrushes scattered around exactly where they were left. Dust. Undone laundry. Windows needing spring cleaning. Instead I go sit in the cafe, late monday evening, eavesdropping conversations, all this life, (who knew?), woving to come back each day. With a less heavy heart.
At home I curl up with a book.
p.s. She is amazing.