maelynslavik

There is a special magic to waking up to silence.

No snow plows rumbling down the street spraying salt in every direction.

No parents yelling at you to wake up,

Because it’s a snow day,

And I get to sleep in.

The first time I saw her, she was clutching a sketchbook in her arms. It was very plain-looking with a black cover and golden spirals.

Every week at church, she carried that sketchbook. I never saw her without it.

Nestled within the plains of the Midwest,

Isolated and alone,

Stands a wholesome oak tree.

Her dark, chestnut body hemmed in by the mucky acorns, 

Those of which were shed out of sorrow.

Dear,

My heart

You have marks showing what I've done

You've seen things

No one wants to see

But you keep on beating

You're battered and bruised

You have scars

Caused by pain

By fear