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.