I have her hands   to hold her stories            

spilt milk

          with the fear of stagnation she became a shapeshifter            

looking glass

            an observant author he claimed he could tell a lot about people by how many times they used “I” in a paragraph              


           (Mozart claims he does not know who chewed those leaves)        

calm before the storm

        the stillness is palpable as a snowstorm approaches I feel the same excitement as when I was young