l’hiver en spring

To the page that sets me a space,

I was littler than nine, now bigger than then.
A pretty little thing wrapped in a bow. With glasses like a ginormous eye on  a sharp shark in the deep waters.

Pretending He cannot swim.

It was a birthday, one that I was disowned. Meaning, I was no longer with parents.

They left me, I cried.

It rained.

It thundered.

The trees were covered in white dust.

It was like the freezer at aunt May’s cottage in Alsace.

Except she was colder than the Alps.

She was stern. Their was no hope in her garden.

or Verde. Even when spring came.

But she was my geweldige tante, And it meant she was suppose to be my everything.

Suppose to.

Everything is a word that I have to think of as winter, a winter in spring.

Forever raining so will you save me? 

 Grateful,

Sarah Beckins

somewhere en France.

Ps. A book ( dearest self)