They falter there
Past your face to the tips of your shoes
They leave the rest of you for shadow
The illuminated edge of your packed bag
The only proof at all
That you are more
Than just shoes
at the backdoor
Those rays of early morning sunshine filled
As noiselessly as your parting steps
The space you leave behind
But there are places left empty by you
Which sunshine cannot fill.
This poet has been writing since she was little little! A packed away pyre of old Journals and poetry books testifies to a growing propulsion to express what her eyes see of the world in writing, to cajole sensation out of the reader, to place them there in that place, where ever that place may be, so that they may taste, smell, sense a world same same but different, keener, hopefully, and steadied enough to assimilate and really truly be seen.
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