It prowled through the wooded trail

The wolf pup, who howled at the moon

And I'd listen despite the thick windows of my room

A stone's throw away from the wild.

When the sky was big enough for both of us to breathe

We kept each other company

Running across the horizon

Together

Before going our separate ways.

But then the moon fell from its hook

And shattered upon the ground

Light was scattered like snow

Wrapping everything I'd known

With a blanket of white darkness.

I curled close to the wolf

There's nothing we can do, besides to weather out this sleeping spell

Contain the restless thoughts

That grew arms and mouths

Plucked ink from the sky to inscribe meaning into the snow

Black on white

Ink on paper

A monochrome forest of stories

Flourishing in winter.

So each night, I'll answer the wolf's call

And write til my mind

Has made peace with itself.

Still, the wolf asks the moon to come back

It doesn't

(It hasn't yet.)

Is this for the better?

Ever since quarantine, it's what I've been thinking about. I love writing more than anything else. And that's both amazing and terrifying.