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Description
The doorstep is cold from last night's snow,
still dirty from the busy lives of muddy
boots and shoes.
Still, she sits, waiting,
the wind facilitating her trembles.
From her chapped, cracking lips
is expelled a cloud of carbon dioxide,
that dissipates into the atmosphere.
Wisps of long, dark hair hang suspended
around her, static with the winter chill.
She blinks her eyes, crusty with old mascara,
to shield them from a billow of wind.
Still, she waits, solemnly.
Her dry, cold hands rub together,
the sunlight reflects off of
chipped nail polish,
sending a brilliant array of scattered light
into the air,
not unlike the mosaic of a butterfly's wing.
But whereas the butterfly, newly born, is free,
this reawakened child
cannot fly away.

Description
The doorstep is cold from last night's snow,
still dirty from the busy lives of muddy
boots and shoes.
Still, she sits, waiting,
the wind facilitating her trembles.
From her chapped, cracking lips
is expelled a cloud of carbon dioxide,
that dissipates into the atmosphere.
Wisps of long, dark hair hang suspended
around her, static with the winter chill.
She blinks her eyes, crusty with old mascara,
to shield them from a billow of wind.
Still, she waits, solemnly.
Her dry, cold hands rub together,
the sunlight reflects off of
chipped nail polish,
sending a brilliant array of scattered light
into the air,
not unlike the mosaic of a butterfly's wing.
But whereas the butterfly, newly born, is free,
this reawakened child
cannot fly away.