I saw a fox just past the gate,
her eyes like dust, her breath like steam.
She didn't run, just watched me there,
half in the world, half in a dream.
Her coat was stitched with falling leaves,
the kind that never touch the ground.
I took a step, she took a breath,
then vanished without making a sound.
They say the wild won't wait for you,
it teaches fast, and leaves you slow.
But still I stand where foxes go-
too scared to chase,
too old not to.
I wrote this about my huge fear of growing up, though I feel like that may be a common occurrence in some of my poems.
