Since people don't believe I can write, here is some (hopefully convincing) evidence. (If not, I'll just show you guys a copy of Seedlings on Thursday.)
(From a collection I am currently writing)
XVIII.
like a secret glance at a cherished classmate
who sits too far away
to be singed by ardour
like the whisper of thoughts
as a muggy morning rests itself
heavily on your mind
like the incandescence in your eyes
once the pieces click into place
after much talking
after much writing
after so much
like the minutes that steal you away
- slowly
and then too fast -
you are so quiet in class
(c)MsStraaten.2009:)
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