My hand on paperFrozen in midairWhat should I write?About the wind on my face?The coolness of winter?The rays in the jubilant sky?I sit, in thoughtMy mind reachesTrying to pullFrom the deepest part of mindIdeasI thinkThe show last weekThe blue jay sitting in a treeVines from our plantReaching up to the skyOne comesMy hand starts movingAlive againWith joy and graceWords appearSitting thereBoring lookingBlack and normalBut yetWhat would I do without them?They are my lines of graceMy way of communicatingThey are my language.