I’ve stopped trying to write what I don’t know
By Olivia Gwyn
Instead—
the scattering of the leaves, the underside of the branches, the soft mud underfoot and the gentle unforeseen passing of days
The weeping of the willows in my best friend’s backyard in June, her parents insisting we wear helmets, me, proud and foolish, determined to ride with
The wind in my hair, the world flying by my eyes, my heart too slow, too young to imagine what they feared, what they knew
How much there still was to lose
and how full my hands are,
how easily something could fall
