What stories remain hidden beneath the surface of words?
Trees in Autumn passing don't change colors as much as shed them - cold nights stripping away the visible armor of summer
Remember the book — long lost on the library shelf referential only those who wrote it, the last hands to caress its pages, smudged with ink and patience
Polaroids always took their time oxidizing in air before revealing truth, a moment uncovered, haunted by ghosts of the times long since past
I am forever leaving breadcrumbs; tiny passages of ideas, formed into syllables and sound, hoping my Gretel knows where I am, and where I'm going, even as the witch awaits