Outside,

The sky is overcast and gray.

Beautiful. 

It looks as if it is about to rain,

Gorgeous fat drops falling,

A rhythm that beats the same pattern as my heart.

I have never felt them on my delicate skin,

But I can imagine how they must feel:

Cold pinpricks of moisture.

 

The trees are barren.

I watched as the last leaves fell weeks ago,

When the fiery golds and reds were replaced by dull brown.

I have never touched the rough bark of a tree,

But I can imagine how it must feel:

Hard and sharp and smelling of wood, puncturing the thinness of my skin.

 

The grass is pale and yellow.

I prefer it in the spring, when life is new,

When the short shoots are soft and green and dainty.

I have never felt the grass,

But I can imagine how it must be:

Tickling the soles of my fragile feet.

 

I press my face to the icy glass of my only window,

Fogging it up with my shallow breaths.

Even that small movement sends

A sharp needle of pain into my spine.

I lean back again into the hard cushion of my wheelchair.

The fog from my breath fades too quickly,

As if I was never here,

But I reach out and draw a stick figure me

Standing in the field outside

As the edges of my picture close in and I am erased.