The Snowy Peaks
A storm passes; the page remains.
When my son returned he threw his school bag angrily against the wall ran headlong upstairs red-faced slamming doors. There was not much to say as I picked up his rucksack to empty his half eaten lunch the paper fell on the floor handscrawled 8 year-old cursive. ‘the snowy peaks’ i see a hiker i feel snow i hear whistling wind i smell flowers i regret my life choices i keep on going when i get back down i skip rocks at the beach folding his poem I slide it under the door.



That is so deep for an 8-year old...loved it...
so much empathy and wisdom in this piece 🖤