Seasons change,

And the quick, smooth flow of ink

settles in her lungs.

Words color her skin

and thoughts erupt chaos in her brain.

And so she'll pick up her pen,

bow low to the paper,

and begin.

She'll write about jagged shores

And evil creatures

and sandstone and lime and sediment.

She'll write about blue

and about red

and about black.

She'll write about flowers and bees and clouds

and hands

and faces

and lips

and eyes.

She'll write about the striking green of the other's eyes,

So tactfully avoiding

the ice-blue of her own.

For she doesn't write who she is,

But who she wants to be.