I was walking when the wind brushed the curls out of my face to show me an idea.
The cold weather of winter pressed on my cheeks,
My hands did not dare uncover themselves from the warmth of my pockets,
But the idea moved with the wind
And if I couldn’t catch her,
She would be transported somewhere far away,
Far from the reach of pen and paper.
So I ran quickly to my home where I could preserve her through ink.
I tricked the idea into following me through the back door.
Now, she lives in my notebook for me to revisit as I remember the wind of days long past.