Reid@YWP

     The lump in my throat grows slowly as I hang onto a borrowed, too-large gray sweater for dear life. Small portions of golden potatoes and thinly-cut pieces of steak au poivre steam gently on the dinner table.

Search for the feeling you found so long ago 

Slow down the days 

Slow down the minutes that turn into hours and years 

Take a chance to live in the moment 

I have searched

For years to find

The blueprint

That people have tried

Oh so hard to follow

It is now that I realize

There is no blueprint

No one gets to design me

And be the architect

It was the little things that made Martha want to leave home.

A perfect ride

Is equal to music 

Each turn is a sound 

That adds to the song

A green a blue a black

Slow

Medium