By Mina Talebi, TIWP Student

Her pen slows to a stop above her inky, smudged paper.
She runs her trembling hands through her tangled, knotted hair.
The wood from the pen rubs against her hands.
The paper is so light.
The wind, so near, so lifting.
The paper drifts to the dusty floor,
Finally settling on the wooden floorboards beneath her feet.
The sunlight filtered through the grimy window,
Calling the young writer outside.
At first touch, the grass is cold, 
Refreshing compared to the feverish indoors.
The morning dew drops from trees and flowers,
Landing in her open hands.
The girl took a breath.
The cool breeze rustled her hair.
The sweet sunlight warmed her face. 
The grass caressed her bare feet, begging her to stay. 
And why wouldn’t she?

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