I lace up my boots,
pull over my coffee sweater,
cuff my woolen socks,
and I think about how, finally
I am expressed.

Every day
my heart is spilling out
over knotted wooden tables.
It is nourished by turning pages
and cementing graphite scratches
onto Moleskin possibilities.

On Sundays
I look through soft river planes
and see familiarity.
Summer kisses my shoulder
and I accept. Willingly,
I give in to this wildness quaking inside.
This begging to be
free, alive, satisfied.