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.