The Light of My Words

This park bench is my sofa,

this blossoming cherry, my lamp.

The setting sun makes a fine fire

by which to warm myself, though

I tuck my bare fee into the soft grass

for even more warmth.

Soon it will be too dark to write

and I will turn in, but I won't

do that until I have to.

And though the sky darkens, the light

of my words guides my pen

across the notebook pages.

I write to find who I am.