Morning Walk

I wear your big shoes.
Clomp, clomp on my feet.
Heading out into new snow with your scent all around me,
your old worn jacket is as warm as a hug.

The sky is a perfect wash of snow weather gray.
I don’t have that color in my pastel box.
If I could only crush the sky with morter and pestle, I would.
I’d press it into little cakes,
and use it to draw you pictures of my day.

The trees have become debutants overnight.
They chime their secrets to each other
when the youthful wind passes
dancing among them.
They seem to laugh as I walk past them in boots not slippers,
and peek at me shyly over the edges of their diamond fans.