Thursday, April 28, 2011

They call the wind Mariah...

I live on the third floor in an attic. My room is a treehouse. With each step up the stairs it smells deeper- wet wood and musk clearing out. My windows are open and the breeze wisps the dust away. This morning the wind tapped on my window, knocking to me to wake. The trees outside shook from side to side, their trunks waving with the breeze. And I watched. Yesterday spring came, she said. When my eyes opened their dance had blossomed into new form.
Papa sang this song to me as a kid. It was my favorite (along with Twinkle Twinkle Little Star).

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