Writer. Wordsmith. Poet. Obsessed with all things hedgehog. The beauty of the story is in the journey, not the arrival.
She stands unevenly as if poised to run,
or drop into a hole opening up under her by sheer wish power,
and her eyes have pieces of broken sky in them.
A place of light and color and ice cream truck music,
where all the slides had flowers,
and all the swings had rabbits to help push,
and the smell of summer was in my eyes,
I keep my feet moving,
in fervent hope that it will keep my mind stepping in place,