maelynslavik

I dream about you still,  
do you dream of me? 

It is no grand affair, these dreams 
not of your smile, your hands, your kindness 

your cruelty 

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.