The birth of a writer

Poetry Fridays with Sarah Dittmore (that's me!)

writing in Paris in 2015

The birth of a writer

by Sarah Dittmore

I skip barefoot 
across the pavement. 

“Watch for nails!” you cry.

But when the sunflowers bloom,
I am invincible, 
and the oak tree
keeps calling my name.

I dance in the space 
beneath its boughs 
and tell stories of princesses
who never needed a prince.

Knitting tales of knights who ride
wolves rather than steads, I create
witches with secrets 
too beautiful to speak.

The butterfly wings drip gold
and the grass still smells like morning.

I do not count the hours as they pass.

For the taste of dreaming is sweet
on my tongue and my eyes see worlds
time will beg me not to trust.

But here, under the branches
of the oak tree, I know 
that dreams are just stories 
we decided to believe.

Want to know more about why we do poetry Fridays? Check out this post.