I’ve stopped trying to write what I don’t know

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