Your images refuse to leave
the backs of my eyes.
Traces of your dirt, left in my shoes treads.
I do not dust them off.
I would steal your roadside weeds
and plant them in my garden.
I held my breath, leaving, as long as I could.
Face red with your wind inside me.
These scribbles are 1st drafts, writing exercises, broken thoughts–something to keep me writing on most days.